


Punch-Drunken Youngblood

by shescreamsinsilence



Category: Billie Eilish (Musician), Green Day, Real Person Fiction
Genre: AGAIN THIS FIC IS NON-SHIP AND FOCUSING ON PLATONIC KINSHIP, Agonizing one-sided attraction, Angst, Bonding, Brutal Love, Fancy fonts, Fluff, Gen, Green Day References, Judy Garland - Freeform, KINSHIP NO SHIPPING, Older man, Other, POV Second Person, Platonic Soulmates, Song Lyrics, THE BILLIES ARE A WHOLESOME TWOSOME, Teenage Crush, Unrequited Love, bit of heartaches, maybe casual hangouts, resposted fic, some deep talks, sudden confessions, unspoken connection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28916787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shescreamsinsilence/pseuds/shescreamsinsilence
Summary: A story about a famous daughter of rage and love, finding someone through music, who probably bleeds from the same vein as she does, even if their worlds are thirty years apart. Sometimes connections can be made in unlikely places, with people you're not supposed to gravitate towards. What happens then when that same pull inevitably gets stretched at its limits? There can be no other ending to such a tale but heartbreak.
Relationships: Billie Joe Armstrong and Billie Eilish
Comments: 7
Kudos: 3





	1. Recipe for Friction

* * *

･ ｡  
☆∴｡ *  
･ﾟ*｡★･  
･ *ﾟ｡ *  
･ ﾟ*｡･ﾟ★｡  
☆ﾟ･｡°*. ﾟɪ'ᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏᴡᴅᴇʀ,  
* ﾟ｡·*･｡ ﾟ*ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ғᴜsᴇ  
ﾟ *.｡☆｡★･  
* ☆ ｡･ﾟ*.｡ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴀᴅᴅ sᴏᴍᴇ ғʀɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ  
* ★ ﾟ･｡ * ｡ ･ ﾟ☆ ｡  
  


You should not and yet you did. You just—ａｒｅ.  
  
You are more star-struck than intimidated, and you were so lucky right now that he hasn’t noticed. Y̲e̲t̲. Or maybe he’s used to that that he’s learned to ignore the attention instead.  
  
All you know is that you’re suddenly hyperaware of him; it’s almost like you gained a superpower in just one day. So when he popped open the hood of his 63 Ford Falcon, and he explained how he fixed the engine himself, you stared like you’ve never heard a grown man talk about cars before.  
  
Stared at him smiling in that particularly boyish way he always did when pleased.  
  
You know this for a fact because Finneas had pointed it out a few times growing up. One of those times was when your brother made you watch some interviews of the band. He said, ‘See that? He’s got fucked up teeth but you almost forget that because of how ᴀᴅᴏʀᴀʙʟᴇ his smile is.’  
  
‘Dude, you’re gay for him, aren’t you?’  
  
‘Well, YEAH!’ Finneas replied like he’s almost offended you even thought otherwise, ‘Tell you what though, if I was older and we met and he wasn’t married yet, maybe I would have had a shot. He’s bi and all.’  
  
What did you know about dye-haired cute guys with bad teeth back then anyway? You were still barely in your teens, but you love your big brother so you say, yeah, sure, he could have totally dated B̟i̟l̟l̟i̟e̟ J̟o̟e̟ A̟r̟m̟s̟t̟r̟o̟n̟g̟.  
  
And as you stand close to the man now a decade later, you noticed he got his teeth fixed at this point, so every time he beamed at you today it wasn’t just adorable.  
  
It was like…worse than Justin Bieber staring at you at Coachella, when that little dickhead surprised you with a hug and made your night.  
  
Yup, so much worse. Because Biebs was a childhood crush. But also, he was—okay, gonna be little miss arrogant here—well, he’ll probably become attainable for you a few more years from now.  
  
But Armstrong?  
  
Dude should just hang a warning sign on that mouth of his so you’ll stay away. But since when did a Kᴇᴇᴘ Oᴜᴛ sign ever stop you, huh?  
  
“Hey,” he nudged you with an elbow as faint concern creased his forehead, “You…okay? Felt like I lost you there for a second.”  
  
Armstrong glanced at the engine of his car and chuckled—almost self-consciously—“I sure hope I didn’t bore you about this.”  
  
“Nah!” You replied, a little too cavalier and therefore so fucking obvious (end yourself, Billie), but you still kept at it, “I was just…I was thinking how cool it was that you named your son with, like, ‘Danger’ as his second name. That’s—I don’t know—definitely punk rock. Wish I was called that too.”  
  
And the old man laughed. Beamed. Did that thing where his eyes almost disappear as he shook his head from side to side. Flashback to the nineties when he’s just a few years older than you are now, sporting bad dye and a nose ring or two. And how Finneas just wouldn’t shut up about date scenarios, so you’d help him put on some eyeliner and a red necktie.  
  
“Your many names are cool too, Billie Jr., I mean…” Armstrong pulled you back from the nostalgia as he added, “I especially like ‘Pirate’. That’s hardcore.”  
  
‘Ｂｉｌｌｉｅ Ｊｒ.’? God, you hope the shit-eating grin you have right now wasn’t making it too obvious you’re totally loving that.  
  
T̶o̶t̶a̶l̶l̶y̶ ̶l̶o̶v̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶him̶.  
  
(End yourself, Billie!)  
  
“So listen; I wanna show you something…” Armstrong’s next smile was a little different than what you’ve seen before in the videos. He tapped you on the side of the arm and urged you to follow him into the dressing rooms.  
  
“Made sure the size is to your liking too,” he then…winked? No, it’s just the glare from the sun. You’re dehydrated. You’re losing it. FOCUS!  
  
The smile he had on looked almost conspirational. Understandably, you started feeling weird around the gut. How much power can a five foot-seven middle-aged man wield on you today? Guess you’re just gonna have to find out. You stepped into the room. No one else is here. No crew. No journalists.  
  
And Armstrong lingered near one of the mirrors, suppressing a giggle like he’s the excited teenage girl in this scenario. With a wave of his hand, he went, “Come on—but hey, how about you close your eyes first?”  
  
Yes. Brilliant idea. Let’s do that, Mr. Armstrong. Make yourself get even more inappropriate ideas by succumbing to the darkness of sight. Jesus.  
  
Against your best judgment, your eyes fluttered shut. You don’t say a peep. You just stand there, clenched fists, gnawing on your bottom lip slightly, as you sensed him coming closer. You know this because of his s̲c̲e̲n̲t̲.  
  
It’s funny because you had watched Woodstock 1994. You saw the man get slathered in mud and dirt as the stage ended up looking like a pigsty around him. You have no illusions he cared that much about hygiene back then; twenty-something punk rocker performing in closed quarters where sweat, alcohol and puke dominated the place—sleeping in vans and unwashed floors inside strangers’ houses—playing around with the other guys in hotel rooms, causing property damage.  
  
That’s the Billie Joe Armstrong your brother introduced you to. He was a badass and maybe on his worst days he even smelled like ass.  
  
But Armstrong now—formidable still in his forty-seven years—smelled really nice. There’s a subtle fragrance on his skin that was hard to describe. But you know it’s there, and it must be punishment decreed by the gods. Before you even realize it, one of your hands blindly searched for him until you grabbed onto something in his person.  
  
Just a portion of his shirt. Innocuous. Accidental.  
  
“Whoa, hold on, kid!” he chuckled and playfully swatted your hand away, “It’s not ready!”  
  
“You’re…starting to freak me out, man!” Both your hands went to your face, in hopes that you can also bury away all the shameless thoughts you’re having at this very moment. Does this old timer not realize how… sᴜɢɢᴇsᴛɪᴠᴇ he’s behaving?  
  
Of course not. Because it hasn’t even occurred to him that he’s treating you like you’re just another one of his electric guitars he’d pound with his fast-paced playing.  
  
Oh god, that was the worst comparison to make right now!  
  
“Open your eyes, Billie Jr.!”  
  
You peeked through the gaps between your fingers and…  
  
“Holy shit!” You ripped your hands from obscuring your vision as you stared wide-eyed at the customized black shirt in front of you. The green cursive letters that spelled out ‘вιℓℓιε’ immediately caught your attention, of course.  
  
Your whole face is trembling. You can’t speak. And when you made no movement at all to take it, Armstrong placed his hands on your shoulders instead to turn you towards the mirror.  
  
“Come on, this is pretty ‘lit’, right?” He said as he draped the shirt over you so you can both see how it would look like before you can put it on.  
  
You almost forgive him for using that word because the sight of the two of you in the mirror was so surreal that it really felt like you’ve lost your mind. The tiny bulbs curved around the mirror made everything glow in the reflection you shared, like a spell was cast, and this wasn’t reality anymore.  
  
You know you should be looking at the shirt but you can’t help but sneak glances at his face in the mirror. He looked…well, so damn pleased. It’s the same kind of look your own father gets when he’s proud of you and Finneas.  
  
And yeah, people could say that he’s just as old as your old man, but your dad was actually a boomer, not a Gen X-er, so he had fifteen years on Armstrong easily.  
  
That’s why you can’t see really him that way—not while he’s standing behind you like this, not too tall to be imposing but tall enough to make you want to lean your back against his chest and disappear into his arms.  
  
He wasn’t old to you—he was ｔｉｍｅｌｅｓｓ.  
  
For all you know, Armstrong could be looking at your reflection and simply see the daughter he wished he had. That’s fine. But you?  
  
You see yourself turning around, angling your face at just the right degree, and closing your eyes as you await a kiss you know would never come. Not when he’s married, thirty years your senior, and you’re almost the same age as his youngest son.  
  
Ngl, folks, it kindda h̲u̲r̲t̲s̲.  
  
“You know what the best part is?” He seized holding up the prized shirt in front of the mirror so he can grab something else. Stepping to the side so you’re now beside each other, Armstrong dramatically lifted another fucking shirt with the same monogrammed letters.  
  
“Matching shirts!” he happily declared. Like it needs to be said.  
  
(Or better yet—couple shirts, anyone?)  
  
“My god,” you spoke without thinking much about what to say, so you end up with, “You are the biggest ᴅᴏʀᴋ I have ever met in my entire life.”  
  
But Armstrong wasn’t listening. He was already going for the door, saying, “I’m gonna go get someone take a picture of us in the mirror with the shirts.”  
  
Just like that, he sounds as seventeen as you are. Christ.  
  
But you love it. You dig it. You’re into him, and you’re gonna have to play it cool for the rest of the interview and shoot today. Shit.

* * *


	2. Symptoms of a Loner Heart

* * *

  
“He’s still sane,  
ʜᴇ’s sᴛɪʟʟ ｇｏｒｇｅｏｕｓ.  
He’s still him, having gone  
through all this shit,  
it’s just like—”

It was hard to tell at which point you became so bold that you let that tiny nugget slip out. A false sense of security, perhaps? Everyone has been accommodating in the last year since your career took off and brought you to great heights only Finneas believed in at first; some were even too adoring while others, still, grit their teeth in annoyance or envy because ʜᴏᴡ ᴅᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ, ʀɪɢʜᴛ? Be seventeen and this successful already because you actually had the talent and the right connections?  
  
Anyway, that’s why you’ve gotten too comfortable now. The crew for the magazine were nothing but kind as well, further encouraging you to be truly yourself. And Armstrong—who sat behind his car next to you, sporting the black shirt and this slick Elvis-esque hair-slash-lone Superman curl—had just opened up to you about things you never in a million years would imagine he would think about you a̲n̲d̲ ̲y̲o̲u̲r̲ ̲m̲u̲s̲i̲c̲, ̲e̲s̲p̲e̲c̲i̲a̲l̲l̲y̲.  
  
“I’ve always been drawn to мυsιc тнαт ғεεℓs ℓιкε ғяεε∂σм,” was the winning phrase he used to explain as to why he attended your concert months ago, why he came backstage, offered you gifts, joked with you, took pictures—made you very special.  
  
During the backseat interview you took notice of every detail; from the way Armstrong cocked his head to the side as he stared straight ahead while the camera was on the left; down to the way he gave only glances as you answered. Was it just due to his social anxiety? You read once that his severe panic attacks in the past had inspired him to compose the song ‘Basketcase’ after all.  
  
Maybe you’re reading too much into it, or maybe you just want him to look at you more. You sure as hell are fighting for your life not to keep staring. You’re aware that the camera on the right was on you the entire time, and that it would reveal mannerisms that might give away certain feelings you sure as hell can’t make the audience now.  
  
So you play it coy. You focus on the questions, Armstrong’s answers, and the overall flow of the exchange of opinions. You’ve done so many interviews already. You never had big problems speaking in public, in real time, engaged with older, more seasoned adults in the industry.  
  
You got this, Billie.  
  
You really did almost make it. And then boom! You called attention to how attractive he is. Right on the thirty-minute marker that included the small breaks as the crew has to adjust sound and lighting in between. It’s how you knew how much footage has been recorded because you saw the marker.  
  
Thirty minutes. Like thirty years—the ᴀɢᴇ ɢᴀᴘ between you and Billie Sr.  
  
Focus, Billie. You still got this. It’s just one little error. He even laughed after you called him gorgeous. It was funny to him.  
  
When the cameras stopped rolling so that the director could review the clip for a minute, you happened to watch it too, and that’s when it occurred to you that, well, Armstrong’s laugh was k̲i̲n̲d̲d̲a̲ ̲w̲e̲i̲r̲d̲. It was like—like he choked on something. Obviously he was taken aback since he probably never considered that you would think of him that way. But really, though? Isn’t a fawning teenager a given when you’re a rock star?  
  
The next part was the photo shoot inside the studio. You immediately started crawling up the top of his Ford Falcon. Armstrong watched you with a neutral expression at first before something else made him a crack a smile.  
  
“Should have known you’re gonna do that,” he remarked as he looked up at you, “You sorta remind me of Tré, you know. I mean, is that why his dirty song was your favorite from Dookie?”  
  
That was unacceptable! He’s not allowed to tease you about that!  
  
“Not at all, I just dig that he made a little ode to going to town on himself,” you casually dismissed the insanity of his accusation with a swipe of your hair from one shoulder to the next, “I could record something like that next time. And it will be subtle and seductive at the same time.”  
  
Maybe it’s just you, but did his shoulders suddenly stiffen? He wasn’t looking at you anymore either since he’s in the middle of opening the door to the driver’s seat. You could tell he’s still listening though.  
  
So you babbled on while your legs dangled from the edge near him, “It’s just gonna be me and a ukulele, ᴄᴇʟᴇʙʀᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ғᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴜʀᴇ.”  
  
That last part made Armstrong almost violently tilt his head back to appraise you in bemused shock. For the next few seconds he looked absolutely torn. Like he wanted to retort with something either witty or raunchy, before he remembered you are still seventeen. And people from the crew are observant even as they work to keep the spotlight on the pair of you.  
  
You shouldn’t talk to him about masturbation (or the female pleasure) like you’re just old friends.  
  
Especially while your legs were still positioned on the edge, facing him as he stared up at you like he’s trying to figure out what the hell you’re about.  
  
But you’re a stubborn little shit sometimes, and you didn’t want to give up the small bout of power you just had by surprising him. So you smiled all innocently at his confused state next; the kind you know is a mix between transparent glee and g̲o̲a̲d̲i̲n̲g̲. Any other oblivious man would have not seen what you’re trying to do, but Armstrong did. Of course he did. There was a slight narrowing in his gaze by now.  
  
Something underneath that, too, felt ｃｏｌｄ. Is it just you or does he seem…ᴅɪsᴀᴘᴘᴏɪɴᴛᴇᴅ? It makes you put up a guard and remember that what you’re doing is something you yourself will be against on another girl your age. (Christ, Billie, you do know better, don’t you?)  
  
“Sorry,” you muttered hastily yet with a blasé tone because you don’t want to admit that you crossed a line just a bit there. “That was inappropriate.”  
  
Armstrong’s half-scolding stare lingered on you for another moment or two as you held your breath. Finally he smiled, allowing for some of that ice to thaw. But his demeanor overall still skated on caution and maybe… ᴀɴɴᴏʏᴀɴᴄᴇ?  
  
“You’re crazy,” he replied with the same kind of unaffected attitude though. Or at least on the outside, to spare both of you further awkwardness.  
  
That would have been the end of that since Armstrong was getting inside the car again to prepare for the shoot itself. But just before he slithered into the seat, you feel his hand reach to cup your knee, giving it a small squeeze.  
  
It was nothing. Meant absolutely nothing. It wasn’t sleazy— y̶o̶u̶ ̶k̶n̶e̶w̶ ̶w̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶g̶r̶o̶p̶e̶d̶ ̶b̶e̶f̶o̶r̶e̶. The touch was innocuous. Could have been accidental. But the grip had some purpose, this you also know. Best not to read into it, however. Armstrong could have easily just been saying, ‘You’re crazy, kiddo, ha ha, so here’s a fatherly pat in the knee’--  
  
Except it was a ｓｑｕｅｅｚｅ.  
  
Nah, bruh, you’re thinking about it _waaay_ too much. Face the cameras already. They’re waiting, and you’re supposed to be working.  
  
You can’t help but wonder if you did strike a nerve there earlier—and whether or not you pushed the friendly banter too far. Sometimes you get so overconfident that you forget that there are still certain protocols in place. You are not exempt from that, are you, just because of your success in this industry. Right, think about your parents. Think about how they raised you.  
  
You flashed back to Armstrong’s cold look moments ago and felt the dread instantly build up on your gut. But the cameras are still rolling. You still need to finish this photo shoot with him. Good grief you’re not much of a smiler anyway. You can still pull this off.  
  
  


  
  
✪➺➺➺

  
  
  
“Man, I can’t wait to turn eighteen so I can get rid of those pesky driving restrictions and ride my baby anywhere I want, you know.”  
  
You were sitting inside the Ford Falcon again with Armstrong on the passenger seat this time. He was eerily quiet for a few minutes as you two were left alone for a bit. You would have loved it, if it wasn’t for his demeanor right now. So all you can do is stew in the foreboding tension you suddenly find yourselves in. One you created, no doubt—fucking instigated because of an off-color joke you stupidly made.  
  
But you keep talking anyway, eager to make up things to fill in the gaps of uncomfortable silence. He was still paying attention to you, since he would hum and nod his head as commentary. That’s not progress though, is it? He was totally over-the-hills excited to hang out with you earlier, what with the matching shirts and selfies he kept taking of the two of you.  
  
And now he’s…ｃｌｏｓｉｎｇ ｕｐ. What once was an open door is now swinging back on its hinges in a slow, deliberate motion, not unlike a creaking door in horror movies. But instead of a ghoul coming out of the shadows, it’s just чσur σppσrtunítч tσ cσnnєct wíth sσmєσnє чσu αdmírє thαt’s вєcσmє α mєrє ghσst. Armstrong was a miles away even as he sat close to you like this.  
  
You would cry but there are cameras involved; in this age of exposure—in your generation of social media where everything is dissected and taken out of context. So you adapt that protective, lackadaisical attitude you wear like a uniform, as thick as the layers of clothes you wrap yourself in every day whenever you go outside to be a performer.  
  
And you were armored. You are Billie Eilish. You open your throat to sing instead of being just caged.  
  
“Hey,” you said and didn’t say anything after that until he glanced your way. He did, but his gaze fell back on the compartment again soon afterwards.  
  
(Remember what you were taught at home, Billie. Be direct. Be earnest.)  
  
“Look, man,” you tried again, adding, “I just want to say I’m really sorry for talking about…masturbation and the female pleasure.”  
  
Better not mince your words, even if it meant repeating the very same terms that got you on his bad side.  
  
Armstrong hardly reacted to you saying them again anyway. You noticed his expression soften, however, and he looked contemplative somewhat even if he still wasn’t making eye contact with you. He just bowed his head slightly, as if staring at his shoes next. With his arms crossed over his chest, he had the stance of a solemn man willing enough to listen to reason.  
  
“I will be real with you, okay?” You went on, angling your body to face him, “I do think you’re attractive. I’m seventeen, not dead.” You cleared your throat to abate your own discomfort and dismay, “But I know there’s a difference between feeling attraction and expressing it, and I know I crossed that line earlier by trying to flirt with you. And I’m so sorry.”  
  
He sighed deeply. You could tell he’s been holding in that exhale of relief for a while now. Slowly, he glanced your way once more. The light from the windows bathed his face in a glow that revealed that he has aged, no matter what his fans say. There were lines on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes, but those same eyes remain ever verdant green and captivating—and they pierced through you at this moment in an attempt to discern your honesty was not feigned.  
  
So you stared back in earnest as well, to let him know that this ain’t fake (Take it or leave it, old man).  
  
“Yeah, okay,” he shifted in his seat so he can lean back on the leather more. He held your gaze without any trace of contempt as he answered, “I didn’t think that’s what you were doing though. If it was your intention all this time, then thanks for telling me. And for that, I’m gonna have to say that you shouldn’t flirt with me—or hell, with any guy unless you’re the same age and…just, you know, don’t do it with an old fart in an Elvis hairdo.”  
  
Humor touched his eyes for a few seconds at that comment, and it loosened something hard on your chest too. You smiled, unable to help yourself.  
  
To your overjoyed relief, he smiled back.  
  
“ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴅᴏ ɪᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀɴ ᴏʟᴅ ғᴀʀᴛ ɪɴ ᴀɴ ᴇʟᴠɪs ʜᴀɪʀᴅᴏ,” you repeated, “Maybe we should get that monogrammed in a shirt.”  
  
“You gotta pay per word, actually,” Armstrong countered as he did something with his hand to emphasize that dry retort, “And I’m on a budget.”  
  
You laughed far too loudly at that, but he grinned at your reaction and he didn’t act so standoffish anymore. This was cool. He was cool.  
  
“So, to recap,” you cleared your throat again and straightened your back as you address him. He did the same, in a playful mocking way that made you huff, but you went on, “I was an idiot for saying those things, and I’m sorry, and I hope we can start over. Is that—like, are you fine with that?”  
  
“Yeah,” Armstrong beamed, boyish smile still clutching at your heart (ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ʜᴀɴᴅ ɢʀᴇɴᴀᴅᴇ, as one of his songs proclaimed once), “I love idiots. Welcome to Idiot Nation, Billie Jr.”  
  
“I get that reference, thank you very much,” you bantered back, “My brother has been a proud member since 2005, don’t you know?”  
  
Warmth flooded those verdant eyes as he replied, “You and your brother. It’s such a symbiotic and creative relationship you have going. And it created such beautiful harmonies in your music. I just—man, I’ve listened to your album many times now. You’re like a…you sound like a nightingale who has been emancipated and doesn’t give a fuck who she shits on when she flies and sings—”  
  
There must be a look of horror and amusement on your face because he mirrored it now too before he burst out laughing. Its notes were ticklish.  
  
“Disturbing imagery,” you ended up laughing with him, “Right on my lane, so don’t sweat it.”  
  
“Yeah, I was trying to go for something cool or edgy but…that figure of speech failed in so many levels! Fuck!” Armstrong scratched the side of his face before sheepishly turning his gaze towards the windshield. “My sons always say that I’m the type of guy who could walk into an awkward sentence and have no idea how the fuck he can get out of it.”  
  
“I concur with this intelligent observation,” you teased back.  
  
“Oh, shut up!” Armstrong flicked a spot on your forehead with his fingers and you winced away, still laughing. He was fishing for his phone next, and you secretly squealed in delight because you got the sense that he was back to taking photos again with you. Your dad was like that too. It doesn’t matter what the occasion was for your old man— to him, every moment with you was meant memorializing.  
  
And in that sense, you understood that Billie Joe Armstrong was not timeless. Age has caught up to him, even if he did cause a ‘drought in the fountain of youth’ on the basis alone of how crazy good-looking he still is even when close to fifty. Gah, you’re getting distracted again!  
  
“Oh, Ｍｉｓｓ Ｐｉｒａｔｅ,” he said all of a sudden in a decisively haughty way as he held away his phone to get the best angle, “The camera lens is up here and not on my face.”  
  
Fuck, busted! But you recovered quickly and shot back, “Yes, Ｍｉｓｔｅｒ Ｉｄｉｏｔ, I got that.”  
  
The sinking feeling returned because that callback maybe a little too risky again, but Armstrong squashed that concern next by laughing and posing like…well, a̲ ̲r̲e̲a̲l̲ ̲i̲d̲i̲o̲t̲ for the next few selfies. It was an embarrassment of riches! (Is this what it’s like for Jacob and Joey on a weekly basis?) You can’t believe you’re being seen with him today, my god!!  
  
“Stop it!” You slapped him lightly on the arm. “You’re worse than me!”  
  
Armstrong kept laughing as he pushed open the car door and jumped out. So sprightly, even if you know that movement took some bit of effort. You followed suit by climbing out of the driver’s seat to reprimand him. You then spent a few moments trying to confiscate his phone since he kept taking weird photos of himself and now you, stumbling there on the grass.  
  
The crew watched in glee but were decent enough not to take shots with their cameras either. Soon the excitement of the interaction calmed down once more, and you found yourself leaning against the hood next to Armstrong, just savoring the warm breeze of the afternoon.  
  
“Hey, kid,” he remarked while the camera man took a small break from taking pictures so he can show them to another associate.  
  
You gave him an impatient look, just to tease him again. “What do you want?”  
  
“Settle down, crαnkч, I just want to say I had fun with you today,” he said, “And for what it’s worth, I don’t blame you for liking Tré’s little number. You’re no Idiot if you didn’t love it.”  
  
He must be patting himself on the back for realllllly wearing out that pun.  
  
You stared at him openly in awe and tiny regret, trying your best to curtail your expression even if a thousand butterflies continue to swarm in your gut. There’s a new song for this, bubbling in the surface, much more forlorn and pitiful than just wishing someone gay to deal with their rejection (wísh чσu wєrєn’t mαrríєd or B̳u̳r̳y̳ ̳A̳n̳ ̳I̳n̳f̳a̳t̳u̳a̳t̳i̳o̳n̳). You hate yourself a little for still seeing him in that light, and the way the sun made his green eyes stand out like this certainly wasn’t helping.  
  
(F̶u̶c̶k̶ ̶O̶c̶e̶a̶n̶ ̶E̶y̶e̶s̶. ̶O̶n̶e̶ ̶l̶o̶o̶k̶ ̶i̶n̶t̶o̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶e̶y̶e̶s̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶’r̶e̶ ̶t̶r̶u̶l̶y̶ ̶d̶r̶o̶w̶n̶i̶n̶g̶, ̶y̶e̶a̶h̶?)  
  
“You’ve been an inspiration, man,” you decided to say, “And it’s been a real privilege to talk to you. I’m glad you took the time out of your busy schedule for this. You made my…well, possibly my entire year!”  
  
“Oh my god,” Armstrong retorted and you can tell he was half-serious with his next question: “More than Rainn Wilson and Bieber?”  
  
You noticed the camera man was back and was instructing you both to pose for the next shot. That’s why you had to delay your answer so you can put an arm around his shoulder and—indirectly—give him the hug you aren’t allowed to bequeath under any other circumstances. Nor can he hold you back in the same degree. Nor should he ever.  
  
When that was over, you faced each other once again and you responded, “Maybe not more than Bieber. It was during Coachella after all.”  
  
Armstrong feigned hurt and disappointment but nodded with a smile seconds later, “Good. You are so lucky to keep meeting people who had inspired you and who also admire you in this industry, Billie Jr.—well, just Billie—not ‘just Billie’ but the Bᴇꜱᴛ Bɪʟʟɪᴇ--Billie Eilish Pirate and…Something Else—sorry I forgot your full name.”  
  
“Here, take my hand,” you mockingly replied as you did take his hand to complete the joke, “I know old age makes you forgetful, but this is the way out of this awkward sentence you just stumbled into, ｓｉｒ.”  
  
“You little—!” Armstrong snatched his hand away and—in lieu of doing anything else—he just flicked your nose this time. You did squeal and try to punch which he met with a…karate pose that N̲O̲ ̲M̲A̲N̲ ̲H̲I̲S̲ ̲A̲G̲E̲ ̲S̲H̲O̲U̲L̲D̲ ̲E̲V̲E̲R̲ ̲G̲E̲T̲ ̲A̲W̲A̲Y̲ ̲W̲I̲T̲H̲! ̲H̲E̲’S̲ ̲I̲N̲S̲U̲F̲F̲E̲R̲A̲B̲L̲E̲!  
  
Someone in the crew next suggested that you drive the Ford Falcon as a parting shot for the video interview. You didn’t need to be told twice and raced back into the driver seat, Tré Cool-style. Armstrong sat back inside and tossed you the keys. He helped you with the gears for a bit, which you picked up in no time.  
  
“If she crashed us,” Armstrong told one of the PAs, “Get a message to my wife and kids and tell them I love them and ask the O’Connells to pay for the funeral.”  
  
Jerk.  
  
Propelled by excitement and wanderlust, you happily steered the wheel and hummed a made-up song while at it. Armstrong, for a moment, looked like he wanted to be controlling, but his own rebel spirit won over and so he leaned back on his leather seat and let you navigate.  
  
You glanced at him after you made a quick turn to the next street, and he was watching you rather intensely. Your neck was hot all of a sudden. And that’s how the butterflies in your stomach turned into scorpions, stinging you with their sweet, sweet poison. But you resisted. There has to be a cure.  
  
Clutching the steering wheel with more determination, you merely smiled at him then shifted your attention back on the road.  
  
You’re the one in control here, and that means you’re responsible for what you should not be feeling. Otherwise, you might end up driving the two of you at the edge of a cliff. Death awaits for the fool in love. And ℓσνє ιѕ fσя ℓσѕєяѕ.  


* * *


	3. Why then—Oh, Why Can’t I

* * *

The first message you got from Billie Joe Armstrong three weeks later was:

  * ⌜wнy dιd υ ѕay тнaт υ dιdn’т ĸnow



ιғ υ even ѕтιll lιĸe мυѕιc anyмore? ⌟  


That was a rather loaded question and certainly not something you’d expect to receive via IG private messaging. You were still in your pajamas too, tucked under the covers of your bed, as your tarantula friend was nestled between your neck and shoulder. It’s their favorite spot to hibernate.  
  
Noontime on a weekend, chilling at home—that’s exactly what you need right now. The fast lane can wait for at least a day or two. You’re not Billie Eilish, the youngest chart-topping pop sensation today. You’re just Billie, the girl bingeing Green Day concerts in your laptop and wondering if you should cover one of their songs as a hidden track in your next album.  
  
The live performance they did in Brixton Academy played in the background as you tried to come up with a good response to his out-of-the-blue query. You also tried to imagine where he is right now when he typed this. At his own house, probably, surrounded by his dogs. Or maybe just Lenny. He’s been posting pictures about that cutie for a while now.  


  
  
⌜gυeѕѕ ιт’ѕ coѕ ι’ve вeen doιng ιт ғor a long тιмe.  
ĸιnda ѕaмe ғor yoυ, rιgнт? мυѕιcal нoυѕeнold ⌟   
  
⌜ѕιвlιng or тwo wнo paѕѕed down тaѕтeѕ and recordѕ⌟   
  
⌜dυde we тalĸed aвoυт тнιѕ! ⌟  


Ｍａａａａｙｂｅ Armstrong has been thinking about you too. Does that mean he ᴍɪssᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ? (W̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶f̶u̶c̶k̶, ̶d̶r̶e̶a̶m̶ ̶o̶n̶! ̶H̶e̶’s̶ ̶g̶o̶t̶ ̶b̶e̶t̶t̶e̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶s̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶m̶i̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶n̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶r̶s̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶a̶s̶s̶). In any case, you’re glad he’s messaged you first. You would have done it yourself, but you seriously have no idea what to say that wouldn’t come off awkward, flirty, or disastrous of biblical proportions.  
  
You watched in restrained anticipation as the dots appeared on the thread, announcing an upcoming response. While waiting, you decided to look at the screen of your laptop where the young Billie Joe Armstrong was taking an intermission in the middle of ᴘᴀᴘᴇʀ ʟᴀɴᴛᴇʀɴs. High as a fucking kite, he was—rambling how he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, that he’s gone mad and will slash his wrists because he’s n̲u̲t̲s̲, n̲u̲t̲s̲, n̲u̲t̲s̲, n̲u̲t̲s̲.  
  
Chuckling at his youthful absurdity, you almost forgot you were still in the middle of a message thread with said old timer. You looked at your phone and the response read:

  * ⌜yea we dιd вυт ιт ѕтayed wιтн мe ι gυeѕѕ⌟ 



  * ⌜ι’ll go away ιғ yoυ don’т wanna тalĸ⌟ 



  * ⌜вυт ιғ yoυ’ll нave мe 



ι нope yoυ don’т мιnd  
ιndυlgιng мe ғor a ғew мιnυтeѕ⌟   


  * ⌜no one’ѕ нere. вored. ⌟



  
  
  
Is heｈｉｇｈwhile talking to you or something? You don’t care. He wants to talk to you. That feels so good. And he said he’s alone at home right now? Hmmm, well, you were both in the same state, with only a few hours apart, give or take. But you can only really coast around LA for the time being before you turn eighteen, so driving to his place was out of the question.  
  
Also, why would you want to do that? It wasn’t like he even asked you to. Your mind, Billie Eilish Pirate Baird, is your worst enemy especially with the delusions it can come up with on the fly whenever you fancy someone.  
  
You were just about to type a message when he added:  


  * ⌜нey ι’м jυѕт вeιng ғrιendly



don’т тaĸe ιт тнe wrong way⌟  


  * ⌜lιĸe ι ѕaιd, jυѕт wanna cнaт



вυт ιғ yoυ can’т ιт’ѕ all good⌟   


  * ⌜rocĸ and roll! ⌟



”Oh my god,” you said aloud as you finally sat up on the bed. The tarantula crawled down the front of your shirt then got cozy on your chest. Its hairy sensation was comforting, putting you in a more relaxed state as you typed:  
  


  
⌜yoυ’re ѕo weιrd, мan вυт ι woυld love тo тalĸ⌟   
  
⌜ι’м вy мyѕelғ тoo wιтн мy ѕpιder and lapтop⌟   
  
⌜ι тнιnĸ ι can мaĸe тιмe ғor an old geezer   
wнo ѕayѕ rocĸ and roll ιn ѕocιal мedιa  
ғor no real conтeхт wнaтѕoever⌟ 

  * ⌜ѕтop вυѕтιng мy вallѕ⌟



  * ⌜ι’м vυlneraвle, can’т yoυ ѕee? ⌟



  
⌜ι coυld do тнaт вυт doeѕn’т ѕeeм aѕ ғυn L⌟  
  
⌜wнaт are yoυ on ѕrѕly? vapιng agaιn? ⌟

  * ⌜yoυ woυnd мe. ι’м ѕcarred ғor lιғe⌟



⌜мayвe yoυ ѕнoυldn’т leт a yoυng perѕon’ѕ opιnιon  
aғғecт yoυ ѕo мυcн. yoυ’ll вe way нappιer. ⌟

  * ⌜вυт yoυ’re ѕυper cool тнoυgн



and ι need yoυ тo valιdaтe мe⌟

  


⌜ѕнυт υp! ι coυld тoтally нear тнe ѕarcaѕм  
  
⌜pracтιcally ecнoιng ғroм wнere ι aм ѕo ѕннн⌟

  * ⌜yoυ ѕнннн⌟ 



  
⌜no υ υ go ѕннннн⌟ 

  * ⌜yoυ ѕнoυld тype lιĸe an adυlт.



ғorм coнerenт ѕenтenceѕ,   
and pυncтυaтe тнeм properly.⌟  


⌜YOU’RE ONE TO TALK ARMSTRONG⌟  


  * ⌜yoυ’re one тo тalĸ(,) Arмѕтrong(!)⌟



  
  
“Asshole!” you half-shouted at your phone with a grin on your face the entire time. Without realizing it, you had risen from the bed and started pacing around the room. You typed back another barrage of snarky comments which he seemed to have comebacks for rather easily. What a douchebag. An i̳n̳s̳u̳f̳f̳e̳r̳a̳b̳l̳e̳, g̶o̶r̶g̶e̶o̶u̶s̶ ̶a̶s̶ ̶h̶e̶l̶l̶ douche!  
  
Your exchange slowed down after ten minutes, and you figured he was probably busy with something. Could be with the dogs or maybe his family came back. Maybe he decided to go to his studio at home and hole himself there, overcome by the sudden stroke of inspiration. You wouldn’t really know, though you wanted to find out. But you wanted to keep your responses as a ‘one-time sent’ as possible, dependent on the frequency of his own replies, to avoid bombarding him with additional texts.  
  
ERGO, you wouldn’t come off desperate. THEREFORE he will never think your thirst is real. W̶h̶i̶c̶h̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶i̶s̶, ̶o̶h̶, ̶v̶e̶r̶y̶ ̶m̶u̶c̶h̶ ̶s̶o̶. HOWEVER, you swore that you weren’t going to pursue that path towards self-annihilation, and this friendly banter you got going on right now is nothing more but platonic fodder. Or some shit like that. INDEED you shall behave yourself HENCEFORTH.  
  
That didn’t stop your shoulders from wiggling out of instinct each time your phone PINGS and you stop whatever it was you were in the middle of (in this case, watering a plant by the living room—huh, how did you even get here?) just so you can feed on his next response.  


  * ⌜вeт yoυ can'т waιт ғor aмa, нυн?⌟ 



  
  
Oh—OH! Right, that’s only a few nights from now. Did Armstrong know that the management contacted yours to announce them before their performance? A small part of you hoped he didn’t, so it’ll be a sweet surprise. That’s not how things work, of course. It’s probably why he’s brought it up. Was he ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇᴅ that you’ve been picked to do it then?  
  
God, narcissist much, B? You collapsed on the sofa by the balcony as you typed your message, keeping it as direct yet less fangirl-y as possible:  


  
  
⌜yep ιт'ѕ gonna вe ѕo lιт⌟  
⌜ι can'т waιт тo нear yoυr ѕeт⌟  


  
  
There. Normal level of fangirl, nothing alarming. Your gaze settled on the ceiling as you waited for him to say something back. It’s almost like the universe is conspiring to keep you and him connected to each other lately, especially as far as public appearances go. And you’re not complaining; it’s a real honor and privilege to be associated with his band and their music and…what you wouldn’t give to be on the same stage as this fucker.  
  
P͙e͙r͙f͙o͙r͙m͙i͙n͙g͙ t͙o͙g͙e͙t͙h͙e͙r͙. GYAA~ That’s too much! Also, who the fuck squealed just now? Wait, that’s just you. Tarantula was even crawling away from reach, probably freaked out. A Billie Eilish crushing on someone inappropriate for her—even arachnids know to stay the fuck away.

  * ⌜well, тwo ѕongѕ are нardly a ѕeт, doll⌟ 



  
  
Doll? On any other man that term of endearment was lé creepy but…

  
⌜ғιnneaѕ and ι won'т care  
ѕo long aѕ one oғ тнeм ιѕ вaѕĸeтcaѕe⌟  
  
⌜old мan⌟

  * ⌜ιғ yoυ ĸeep υp wιтн тнaт aттιтυde



ιт won'т вe, ĸιddo⌟ 

  
  
⌜wнaт aттιтυde? ι'м вeιng a тoтal angel rιgнт now⌟  
  
⌜ѕo play вaѕĸeтcaѕe plѕ??? ⌟

  * ⌜мayyyyвe no proмιѕeѕ⌟



  
  
A̴s̴k̴ ̴a̴b̴o̴u̴t̴ ̴w̴h̴a̴t̴ ̴h̴e̴’s̴ ̴d̴o̴i̴n̴g̴ ̴r̴i̴g̴h̴t̴ ̴n̴o̴w̴. Frankly, you’d rather not know. It could just be something innocuous, and you’d rather leave something else to the imagination. Hmmm…imagining what Billie Joe Armstrong is doing right now…probably being a weirdo and filming his children and wife again and going live on IG for that. Or dressing up Lenny in a unicorn outfit. Or showcasing pink headphones or a Joker make-up or updating the playlist for the Oakland Coffee Spotify—Jesus, Billie, aren’t you regularly updated about his social media presence? Even your inner voice is creeped out!  
  
Fuck this.

⌜нey мy мan wнaт are yoυ υp тo rn??⌟

  
  
Dammit. Two question marks. Bit desperate.  
  
The longest eighteen seconds of your life passed by. You were literally in shambles until he messaged back:  


  * ⌜learnιng тo play cнeѕѕ onlιne⌟



⌜ι ĸnow, ι ĸnow, ιт'ѕ ѕoмeтнιng  
an old мan woυld do⌟  


  
⌜old мen woυldn'т тry тo learn cнeѕѕ υѕιng тнe ιnтerneт⌟  
⌜тнey'd go oυт and ғιnd oтнer old мen тo play тнaт wιтн⌟

  * ⌜ι ĸnow ѕoмe вaѕιcѕ⌟



⌜мy вroтнerѕ woυld play тнιѕ on occaѕιon⌟  
⌜ѕo ι wanna do ιт тoo.⌟  


  
⌜ғιnneaѕ ĸnowѕ нow тo play. ⌟  
⌜ι can aѕĸ нιм тo тeacн мe⌟  
⌜тнen ι'll тeacн yoυ⌟  


  
To your abject horror (and unbridled excitement)—instead of a worded message—you got an ᴀᴜᴅɪᴏ ʀᴇᴄᴏʀᴅɪɴɢ of something. You stared at it incredulously even as you pressed it play. His voice came out very clear, like he’s holding the phone too close to his mouth. No doubt that that’s the case (how did he even know one can do that within messages? He is, after all, the same man who took some time learning how to exit a live IG video). Thank god for either Joey or Jacob then.  
  


  
『I̟f̟ F̟i̟n̟n̟e̟a̟s̟ c̟a̟n̟ p̟l̟a̟y̟ c̟h̟e̟s̟s̟, I̟ s̟h̟o̟u̟l̟d̟ j̟u̟s̟t̟ g̟o̟ s̟t̟r̟a̟i̟g̟h̟t̟ t̟o̟ h̟i̟m̟  
a̟n̟d̟ b̟y̟p̟a̟s̟s̟ y̟o̟u̟, t̟h̟e̟ o̟b̟l̟i̟g̟a̟t̟o̟r̟y̟ m̟i̟d̟d̟l̟e̟ m̟a̟n̟.  
O̟r̟ w̟o̟m̟a̟n̟. W̟h̟a̟t̟ h̟a̟v̟e̟ y̟o̟u̟. R̟i̟g̟h̟t̟?  
Y̟o̟u̟ d̟o̟n̟'t̟ n̟e̟e̟d̟ t̟o̟ b̟e̟ i̟n̟c̟l̟u̟d̟e̟d̟ i̟n̟ e̟v̟e̟r̟y̟t̟h̟i̟n̟g̟』  
[a chuckle]『I̟'m̟ j̟u̟s̟t̟ f̟u̟c̟k̟i̟n̟g̟ a̟r̟o̟u̟n̟d̟ 』  


  
  
You may have played that recording f̲i̲v̲e̲ ̲m̲o̲r̲e̲ ̲t̲i̲m̲e̲s̲ before you actually replied—just so you can savor the timber in his voice, even drink in how he laughed in between. It took another few seconds of you agonizing what to say on record, but finally you settled with:  
  


  
T̟h̟e̟r̟e̟ a̟r̟e̟ o̟n̟l̟y̟ s̟o̟ m̟a̟n̟y̟ t̟h̟i̟n̟g̟s̟ t̟h̟a̟t̟ c̟o̟u̟l̟d̟ r̟e̟a̟l̟l̟y̟ h̟u̟r̟t̟ m̟e̟  
a̟n̟d̟ y̟o̟u̟r̟ r̟e̟j̟e̟c̟t̟i̟o̟n̟ i̟s̟ q̟u̟i̟t̟e̟ p̟o̟s̟s̟i̟b̟l̟y̟ v̟e̟r̟y̟ h̟i̟g̟h̟ o̟n̟ t̟h̟a̟t̟ l̟i̟s̟t̟.  
I̟ h̟o̟p̟e̟ y̟o̟u̟ c̟a̟n̟ l̟i̟v̟e̟ w̟i̟t̟h̟ y̟o̟u̟r̟s̟e̟l̟f̟, k̟n̟o̟w̟i̟n̟g̟ t̟h̟a̟t̟  


  
  
Dots appeared again on the screen.

  * ⌜ѕo draмaтιc. ѕυre yoυ're noт an arмѕтrong?⌟



  
⌜only вy мarrιage⌟

  
  
FUCCKCKCKCCKCCKKK ASDFGHKL!!! Did you really just send that shit?!  
  
Armstrong didn’t leave you hanging for too long because he breezily responded with the single worst sentence you’ve ever read:  


  * ⌜ **yoυ joĸe вυт jacoв’ѕ ѕιngle rιgнт now** ⌟



  
  
Well. Okay. You’ve met Jacob before; he was there with Adrienne when Billie Joe Armstrong surprised you with a visit backstage. All you remembered about him was that he’s real cutie with those brown eyes and shy smile. He plays in a band too, like his brother. Guess it wouldn’t be so bad going after him—but that would be ｓｅｔｔｌｉｎｇ, wouldn’t it?  
  
And then Armstrong sent you a link to said son’s latest post in IG.  


  * ⌜ **ѕee нow daѕнιng мy вoy ιѕ?** ⌟



  
  
A sinking, lovesick feeling takes over.  
  
He sent another, this time from Adrienne’s own page.  


  * ⌜ **тalenтed and a real genтleмan** ⌟



  
  
Another post—one of his—and a short video clip at that.  
  
There’s a rupture in your veins where you bleed the hardest.  
  
Your fingers were frozen in place before your thumb moved on it own to press on the icon that would allow you to record something in response. In spite of your best efforts, your voice came off shaky.  
  


  
Ï'ṃ ṿệŕÿ ḟŀäẗẗệŕệď ÿöü ẅäńẗ ẗö ḧööḳ üṩ üṗ  
  
ḅüẗ ṃÿ ḧệäŕẗ ïṩ ṩöŕẗä ċäüġḧẗ ïń ä ẗäńġŀệ ḟöŕ ṩöṃệöńệ ệŀṩệ  


  
  
More dots. Then they’re gone for a bit, before resurfacing again on the screen. You bit on your bottom lip the whole time as you waited, with your feet up on the sofa in a position that would allow you to hug your knees so your chin can rest atop them.  


  * ⌜нey, noт preѕѕυrιng yoυ! ι waѕ jυѕт мeѕѕιng aroυnd agaιn.



вυт ι coυld тell ι нιт a nerve ѕo ι’м ѕorry, вιllιe.  
ι нope тнaт worĸѕ oυт тнoυgн.  
тнey’re very lυcĸy, ιғ тнey ever wanт yoυ вacĸ⌟  
  
  
“Don’t I know it…” you muttered. Afterwards you left the message on seen for a few minutes. There was nothing else to say that wouldn’t end giving up the game. You felt woozy, maybe even defeated. Articulating that passive aggressive confession took its toll. There’s also hot lava now in your chest—that’s the only way to describe it. ᴡᴏʀsᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʙᴇʟʟʏᴀᴄʜᴇ. So you lie flat with your face pressed on the futon of the sofa for a long time, hoping to get better perspective by obscuring your sight.  
  
To Armstrong’s credit, he didn’t message you after your non-response. It’s either he didn’t care enough or maybe he sensed you needed the space. You expected the latter, given he’s supposed to be the mature one here, and a parent himself who had dealt with his share of teenage angst. You opened the music app on your phone next and pressed play without noticing that it was in the middle of a certain track. It was only when his goddamn voice came up that you realized what he was singing--

  
**  
Ｉ'ｍ ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔａｎｄｉｎｇ ｎｏｗ ｔｈａｔ  
Ｗｅ ａｒｅ ｏｎｌｙ ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ  
Ｔｏ ｔｈｉｓ ｄａｙ Ｉ'ｍ ａｓｋｉｎｇ ｗｈｙ  
Ｉ ｓｔｉｌｌ ｔｈｉｎｋ ａｂｏｕｔ ｙｏｕ  
**

  
Well, fuck you too, universe! You half-threw your phone down the carpeted floor right after you shut it off completely. And then you took a nap.  


  
  
  
✪➺➺➺  
  


  
  
It was close to midnight when you messaged Armstrong again. Your room was soaked in utter darkness, save for the dulled light from your screen. You usually like it when it’s black as black, and there’s nothing but your breath and heartbeat as companions. And now—even with diminished hope—you wish he’s here next to you. And you’re swaddled in his arms because you need all the comfort you can get at the moment.  
  
This stupid r̲e̲s̲t̲l̲e̲s̲s̲ ̲h̲e̲a̲r̲t̲ ̲s̲y̲n̲d̲r̲o̲m̲e̲ will be the death of you someday.  
  
Judy Garland’s Dᴇᴀʀ Mʀ. Gᴀʙʟᴇ was also playing through your earphones. The fucking lyrics serenaded and eviscerated you all at once as you measured the words you typed to Armstrong.  


  
  
⌜ι waѕ waтcнιng jυdy earlιer. yoυ ĸnow, тнe one wιтн renée zellweger.  
acтυally lιѕтenιng тo one oғ нer ѕongѕ now.  
anyway, yoυ were тнe ѕaмe age aѕ нer wнen ѕнe dιed.  
and ѕнe lιved тнroυgн ѕυcн нardѕнιp,  
jυѕт ғιgнтιng тo ĸeep perғorмιng even aѕ тнe people  
wнo were ѕυppoѕed тo тaĸe care oғ нer eхploιтed нer тalenт.  
вelιттled нer. вody-ѕнaмed нer. drυgged нer υp.⌟  


  
  
You really shouldn’t bother him with this emotions vomit out of nowhere, especially considering how you left things off on your last conversation just a few hours ago. But you were sore in many places and experiencing that film only made the indecipherable feelings more potent.  


  
  
⌜yoυ aѕĸed мe wнy ι ѕaιd тнere waѕ a тιмe  
ι waѕn'т even ѕυre ι lιĸe мυѕιc anyмore.  
мayвe ιт waѕ a вιт oғ a вυrnoυт coѕ ι grew υp wιтн ιт ғor ѕo long,  
lιĸe jυdy тoo. noт coмparιng мyѕelғ тo нer тalenт  
and wнaт ѕнe endυred, вυт ι тell yoυ wнaт тнoυgн,  
ιғ ι ғeel overworĸed or ѕтreѕѕed oυт wнιle recordιng мυѕιc  
or oυт oғ ιт, мy parenтѕ woυld leт мe ѕтop.  
тнey woυldn'т тreaт мe тнe way тнeѕe aѕѕнoleѕ dιd jυdy dιrтy⌟  
  
⌜ι gυeѕѕ ι'м jυѕт overwнelмed  
нow тнere waѕ a lacĸ oғ ѕυpporт ғor jυdy  
ѕo ѕнe ѕpιraled over тнe yearѕ,  
and нow ι'м lυcĸy тo вe вorn ιn тнιѕ era  
wнere ιт'ѕ ĸιnder тo arтιѕтѕ ѕoмewнaт.  
people нave вeen ѕo ѕυpporтιve,  
and ι'м noт even nowнere near aѕ ѕpecιal aѕ jυdy garland⌟  
  
⌜вad ѕнιт ѕтιll goeѕ on lιĸe тнaт ѕтυғғ  
wιтн тaylor ѕwιғт and copyrιgнт ιѕѕυeѕ,  
cнιld ѕтarѕ ѕυғғerιng aвυѕe ιn alarмιng ғreqυency.  
and ι'м jυѕт ѕo lυcĸy, and ιт мaĸeѕ мe angry,  
on вeнalғ oғ тнoѕe wнo dιdn'т нave  
wнaт ι ѕoмeтιмeѕ тaĸe ғor granтed⌟  
  


  
You’ve sent all four walls of texts just a minute after one another, not even bothering to notice that he actually saw them in real time until you took a breather and noticed the ‘Seen’ below the latest one.  
  
There were no dots on his end though, so you went on.  


  
  
⌜ι ѕнoυld proвaвly ѕнυт тнe ғυcĸ υp.  
wнaт do ι ĸnow aвoυт real ѕυғғerιng?  
ι'м a prιvιleged wнιтe gιrl ιn мy тeenѕ,  
earnιng мore мoney тнan ι never woυld нave нad  
ιғ ι waѕ вorn a lιттle dιғғerenт.  
вυт мy нearт jυѕт goeѕ oυт тo jυdy.  
ι нope ѕнe ғoυnd peace ѕoмewнere over тнaт raιnвow.  
ι нope everyone acroѕѕ тнe world wнo ғelт caged  
and can only ғeel ғree тнroυgн arтѕ or мυѕιc  
woυld ғιnd тнeιr raιnвow⌟

Ugh, you’re not making sense anymore. You’re just a mess and you should probably try to compose a song, but you find it much easier to do that when Finneas is here. He knew how to best put your feelings into words and melody, enabling you to sing them in return.  
  
Armstrong never did reply, and you waited five minutes to make sure before you set your phone aside so you can try to get some sleep. You wouldn’t hold that against him. How was he supposed to react anyway after you spilled your guts like that, without any other context aside from a movie you just watched and then related it to the first question he posed in the thread?  
  
But the next morning you woke up to find that he left you three recordings. You debated whether to listen to them already since you haven’t even washed your face yet. One of your eyes was also closed. To hell with it!  
  
S͎o͎o͎o͎o͎…t͎h͎e͎r͎e͎’s͎ a͎ l͎o͎t͎ t͎o͎ u͎n͎p͎a͎c͎k͎ h͎e͎r͎e͎. L͎e͎t͎ m͎e͎ j͎u͎s͎t͎…w͎o͎w͎, w͎h͎e͎r͎e͎ t͎o͎ e͎v͎e͎n͎ s͎t͎a͎r͎t͎? B͎u͎t͎ h͎e͎y͎ l͎i͎s͎t͎e͎n͎—y͎o͎u͎ d͎o͎n͎’t͎ h͎a͎v͎e͎ t͎o͎ s͎h͎u͎t͎ t͎h͎e͎ f͎u͎c͎k͎ u͎p͎, o͎k͎a͎y͎? W͎h͎a͎t͎ y͎o͎u͎ s͎h͎a͎r͎e͎d͎ w͎a͎s͎ v͎a͎l͎i͎d͎, a͎n͎d͎ I͎’m͎ g͎l͎a͎d͎ y͎o͎u͎ t͎h͎i͎n͎k͎ t͎h͎i͎s͎ w͎a͎s͎ a͎ s͎a͎f͎e͎ e͎n͎o͎u͎g͎h͎ s͎p͎a͎c͎e͎ t͎o͎ u͎n͎l͎o͎a͎d͎. B͎e͎c͎a͎u͎s͎e͎ i͎t͎ i͎s͎. A͎n͎d͎ I͎ d͎o͎n͎’t͎ k͎n͎o͎w͎ m͎u͎c͎h͎ a͎b͎o͎u͎t͎ J͎u͎d͎y͎ G͎a͎r͎l͎a͎n͎d͎ e͎x͎c͎e͎p͎t͎ t͎h͎e͎ g͎r͎i͎m͎ f͎a͎c͎t͎s͎ y͎o͎u͎ j͎u͎s͎t͎ l͎a͎i͎d͎ b͎a͎r͎e͎. S͎o͎…f͎o͎r͎t͎y͎-s͎e͎v͎e͎n͎, h͎u͎h͎? T͎h͎a͎t͎ y͎o͎u͎n͎g͎? J͎e͎s͎u͎s͎.  
  
You hit the next recording.  
  
L̟o̟o̟k̟, l̟e̟t̟’s̟ n̟o̟t̟ p̟r̟e̟t̟e̟n̟d̟ w̟e̟ h̟a̟v̟e̟n̟’t̟ b̟e̟e̟n̟ u̟n̟d̟e̟r̟ a̟l̟l̟ k̟i̟n̟d̟s̟ o̟f̟ p̟r̟e̟s̟s̟u̟r̟e̟s̟ a̟s̟ a̟r̟t̟i̟s̟t̟s̟. W̟e̟ m̟a̟y̟ h̟a̟v̟e̟ d̟i̟f̟f̟e̟r̟e̟n̟t̟ l̟i̟f̟e̟ s̟p̟a̟n̟s̟ a̟n̟d̟ c̟o̟l̟l̟e̟c̟t̟i̟o̟n̟ o̟f̟ e̟x̟p̟e̟r̟i̟e̟n̟c̟e̟s̟, b̟u̟t̟ w̟e̟ p̟r̟e̟t̟t̟y̟ m̟u̟c̟h̟ u̟n̟d̟e̟r̟s̟t̟a̟n̟d̟ w̟h̟a̟t̟ w̟a̟s̟ i̟n̟v̟o̟l̟v̟e̟d̟ a̟s̟ s̟o̟o̟n̟ a̟s̟ w̟e̟ d̟e̟c̟i̟d̟e̟d̟ t̟o̟ s̟h̟a̟r̟e̟ o̟u̟r̟s̟e̟l̟v̟e̟s̟ t̟o̟ t̟h̟e̟ r̟e̟s̟t̟ o̟f̟ t̟h̟e̟ w̟o̟r̟l̟d̟ t̟h̟i̟s̟ w̟a̟y̟, a̟n̟d̟ t̟h̟a̟t̟ w̟e̟ o̟f̟t̟e̟n̟ l̟e̟a̟r̟n̟ o̟n̟ t̟h̟e̟ j̟o̟b̟. I̟t̟’s̟ a̟g̟o̟n̟i̟z̟i̟n̟g̟. N̟e̟r̟v̟e̟-w̟r̟a̟c̟k̟i̟n̟g̟. A̟n̟d̟ w̟e̟ g̟e̟t̟ b̟u̟r̟n̟e̟d̟ o̟u̟t̟. W̟e̟ f̟e̟e̟l̟ l̟i̟k̟e̟ m̟o̟s̟t̟ d̟a̟y̟s̟ t̟h̟e̟r̟e̟’s̟ n̟o̟ e̟n̟o̟u̟g̟h̟ m̟u̟s̟i̟c̟ t̟o̟ c̟o̟n̟t̟a̟i̟n̟ o̟r̟ e̟x̟p̟r̟e̟s̟s̟ w̟h̟a̟t̟ w̟e̟ f̟e̟e̟l̟ i̟n̟s̟i̟d̟e̟.  
  
The last one.  
  
G̟o̟s̟h̟, B̟i̟l̟l̟i̟e̟. M̟i̟s̟s̟ P̟i̟r̟a̟t̟e̟. U̟m̟, y̟o̟u̟ k̟n̟o̟w̟, I̟’m̟ r̟e̟c̟o̟r̟d̟i̟n̟g̟ t̟h̟i̟s̟ i̟n̟ t̟h̟e̟ b̟a̟t̟h̟r̟o̟o̟m̟ s̟i̟n̟c̟e̟ 8̟0̟’s̟ a̟s̟l̟e̟e̟p̟, s̟o̟ i̟f̟ y̟o̟u̟ h̟e̟a̟r̟ e̟c̟h̟o̟i̟n̟g̟—a̟n̟y̟w̟a̟y̟, l̟e̟t̟’s̟ t̟a̟l̟k̟ s̟o̟o̟n̟. F̟a̟c̟e̟ t̟o̟ f̟a̟c̟e̟. M̟a̟y̟b̟e̟ i̟n̟ t̟h̟e̟ a̟f̟t̟e̟r̟ p̟a̟r̟t̟y̟ f̟o̟r̟ t̟h̟e̟ A̟M̟A̟. I̟’d̟ l̟i̟k̟e̟ t̟o̟ s̟e̟e̟ y̟o̟u̟ a̟g̟a̟i̟n̟. Y̟o̟u̟’r̟e̟ a̟ r̟e̟a̟l̟l̟y̟…c̟o̟o̟l̟ c̟a̟t̟. F̟u̟c̟k̟, t̟h̟a̟t̟’s̟—t̟h̟a̟t̟’s̟ n̟o̟t̟ w̟h̟a̟t̟ t̟h̟e̟ k̟i̟d̟s̟ s̟a̟y̟ t̟h̟e̟s̟e̟ d̟a̟y̟s̟, i̟s̟n̟’t̟ i̟t̟? W̟e̟l̟l̟, y̟e̟a̟h̟. S̟o̟…g̟o̟o̟d̟ m̟o̟r̟n̟i̟n̟g̟ w̟h̟e̟n̟ y̟o̟u̟ g̟e̟t̟ t̟h̟i̟s̟. A̟n̟d̟ s̟e̟e̟ y̟o̟u̟ i̟n̟ a̟ f̟e̟w̟ d̟a̟y̟s̟.

* * *


	4. Turpentine, erase me whole

* * *

You may not see him because of the quaint bonnet you had on that sort of did obscure your vision (a fashionable choice you choose to stand by), but you didn’t doubt there was a smile on his stupid face, which you can picture so clearly that it’s almost like a tattoo in your mind.  
  
“Also,” Armstrong interrupted himself from what you were talking about just now, so he could ask, “…what the hell do you have on?” And then he reached to lift the rim of your bonnet slightly and you didn’t stop him.  
  
His nearness was everything you can ask for at the moment after everything that’s been said between the two of you. You actually share inside jokes at this point, and he didn’t hesitate to brandish them against you once you found a private enough space to talk while waiting for the red carpet to near its end.  
  
It was almost like you were looking for each other through the swarm of photographers and A-list celebrities who flocked to this event. That might as well be the case, but you did promise to work on your narcissistic presumptions when it came to this man, so you’d rather just believe it was only by chance that you found each other again amidst the hectic crowd.  
  
Not like you fell into the orbit of his star for the millionth time. It’s never intentional when it happens, or at least you tell yourself that.  
  
“It’s just a head piece, bruh. Chill.”  
  
But Armstrong seemed determined to be rid of it and in the next few seconds he was successfully able to take it off. He treated it like some kind of foreign mechanism that wished to investigate. He spun it around his hands, analyzing the circumference as if life and death depended upon it, completely absorbed by its shape.  
  
You laughed at this silly old man and, as revenge, you pulled the sunglasses off his face. It’s almost night time, Christ, why is he still wearing this?  
  
Almost in synchrony, you each put on the bonnet and shades. It stuck weirdly on him because he didn’t seem to understand how it should be worn.  
  
“Wait, are these lenses actually corrective?” You adjusted them on your face since your vision became instantly blurred as soon as you donned them on.  
  
“What do you think?” he deadpanned as he stared at you through the bonnet he had hopelessly used as a robber’s mask instead of just another fashion accessory. You know, like its original purpose to begin with. Sheesh.  
  
Well, they do have a red tinge to them at least.  
  
“You do it like this…” With your help, you were able to fit the bonnet in the right way and then, almost instinctively, Old Man Armstrong held up his phone and took a selfie.  
  
“Wanna include me on that?”  
  
“Nah.”  
  
Jerk.  
  
He got bored with the bonnet and slipped it out his head soon enough. The air changed next with a sudden heaviness while the rest of the world blurred in the background. And all you could hear was him say, “Listen, Billie…”  
  
Armstrong paused to turn and look at you again. You wondered vaguely if hearing himself use his own name to address you was ever weird (you know it kinda was for you, so you always say ‘Billie Joe’ and lately just ‘Armstrong’ since that one sounded more impressive).  
  
“I think we have thirty minutes to spare, give or take, before curtain time for our own sets,” he explained, “I checked it with the handlers earlier. Because I really want to talk to you about what you said to me a few nights ago. If you can even remember.”  
  
Honestly, you don’t think you could ever forget any of it.  
  
“Yeah,” you fiddled one of the buttons of your garment then handed him the sunglasses back. “I’m going first then I’ll be announcing you and the guys later on. But you already know that.”  
  
You looked across the lines of people on the left side, most of them very recognizable, and in the sea of such popular contemporaries, you feel like a small fish. There was a time Armstrong made you feel that tiny too, but that was before he let you drive his car and he called you ‘junior’ and swapped stories with you about growing up with music and performing it.  
  
He stepped down from that pedestal precisely sᴏ ʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴛʀʏ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴀʏ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ.  
  
Is that what he’s doing again today? Maybe. The gut-wrenching look of concern in those verdant eyes seemed to testify so.  
  
Armstrong smiled though it didn’t reach his eyes. But he phoned it in anyway, for your sake, as he concealed his gaze with the shades once more. “It’s okay if you’d rather just put it off your mind—”  
  
But you interjected, “Nah, I mean…we wouldn’t have any more time to talk because of conflicting schedules next time around. Possibly. And I think it’s a conversation we should have face to face. Right?”  
  
He nodded and then folded his arms across his chest that made him stern and standoffish but in reality you realized he was probably just self-conscious. This gave you time to take note of his appearance while being as discreet about it as possible. The overall presentation was more elegant than you have come to expect from someone who often dressed up like a perpetual emo teen in guyliner.  
  
Huh, come to think about it; Armstrong was beginning to dress more his age—that is by being more on the conservative side with some sprinkle of seventies glam in there, but still more tasteful than the outfits he used to go for. The muted dark colors right now stood out against the colorful parade of flashier garments among his peers.  
  
His suit was ironed crisp, but the cloth smooth in a way that still ᴍᴀᴋᴇs ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴜɴ ᴀ ʜᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴄʀᴏss ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀᴛᴇʀɪᴀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ғᴇᴇʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴜsᴄʟᴇ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀɴᴇᴀᴛʜ. Or maybe it’s just how he was posed next to you right now. He looked like he needed some form of physical contact.  
  
But again, that’s all just you.  
  
“What are you thinking?” he caught you staring in no time but he didn’t seem to think there was any hidden agenda in how you’re appraising his looks. He probably believed you merely got sidetracked and was staring blankly.  
  
“Sorry,” you replied as you put on the bonnet again, “I guess sometimes I struggle to stay focused on one thing at a time, and it’s happening here and there. But weirdly, social events like this keep me more in check. So don’t worry about me, William Sr., sir.”  
  
“Ew, it’s just Billie Joe, not William-anything,” he laughed. But the jovial feeling passed and you’re back to not looking at each other on purpose. Good thing the official awarding ceremony and event was about to start, and your respective ushers and security were calling for you to follow them.  
  
You turned away but then felt him squeeze you gently on the elbow as he said, “Be seeing you later, alright? I’ll stop by your dressing room some time after you finish your set.”  
  
With a nervous gulp, you managed to glance at him one last time and smile.  
  
  
  
  
✪➺➺➺  
  
  
  
Lizzie was a friend of a friend, but at the risk of being accused of snobbery, you agreed to let her hang in the room. She was nice enough, if not sarcastic at times. After freshening up from your performance, you realized that it was only the two of you left inside for some odd reason, but she’s more content to chew on the snacks in the corner than interact. Fine by you too.  
  
You were putting some balm on your lips when one of the security knocked and stepped into the room to say, “Miss Eilish, you got a Mr. Armstrong here for you. Can I send him in?”  
  
“Uh…sure,” you then whipped your head towards Lizzie, who obviously wasn’t going to be helpful or appropriate because she said:  
  
“Ooh! A gentleman caller!”  
  
Under the guise of thinking she was being cute at first—right until she set her eyes on the visitor in question and almost dropped a fish stick she plucked from the servings.  
  
“Hey, kiddo,” Armstrong strode in with a lighter gait than his demeanor from back at the red carpet with you. He glanced at Lizzie with a warm smile. “A friend of yours? Hi, I’m also called Billie.”  
  
He reached to shake her hand and she numbly returned it, with barely a squeeze of her own, like she’s expecting him to kiss it instead. She’s grinning from ear to ear instead and then insisted on taking a few selfies with him. Yes, a few. Not one. Not two. Hell, not even three. Brilliant.  
  
You prompted her to leave a moment later which she even wanted to contest at first. The only thing that prevented her from doing it was that kind expression on Armstrong the entire time as he watched her. He was so patient and so silent about it that it seemed to do the trick to intimidate her out of the room.  
  
“Okay,” you faced him at last, hands clasping one another in front of you like some proper lady. He, too, placed his hands behind his back. Dead air lasted for two seconds or more as you just waited on each other to say something. The fuck are you two even doing, wasting time on decorum like this?  
  
“Alright, my dude, let’s discuss about my small mental breakdown from before.”  
  
“Don’t be so harsh on yourself,” he rested a few of the fingers of his left hand on the large belt buckle he had on. Oh, he’s changed his suit. This one was more casual, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. It’s still monochrome black, but the design of his dress shirt—with those small, sewn-in flower-looking metal things—was quite chic.  
  
(Wow, Billie. Maybe you should have a fashion column or something if all you keep fixating on is how he’s dressed tonight.)  
  
“You wanted to share something personal that night, and I’m actually pretty honored you chose to open up to me,” he regarded you with an almost shy smile that made him look ten years younger. “And, correct me if I’m jumping into conclusions here but…I don’t think you’ll ever end up like Judy Garland. I mean! As far as how her demise went down, and how much of her personal life had been very troubled, that is. Uh…is that what you’re worried about?”  
  
“I don’t know,” you admitted as you sank into the cushion of the nearest sofa. He sat across from you as you did, opting for a sturdy stool.  
  
“Like…” you tried your best to articulate how you feel, even if it meant not economizing your words, “I have to be really fucking self-entitled to even compare myself to her, even in that regard. So I don’t want to, but…I just can’t wrap my head around the idea that someone like her—who worked hard and deserved the success that came after, especially the legacy left behind—still didn’t find the happiness she wanted outside of the business.”  
  
You looked at your hands to feign fixing your nails, “I guess it’s a bit of a cautionary tale for everyone who is on either side of the fence; not to glamorize celebrity culture or aspire to be a great artist at the expense of your personal detriment. But there’s more to Judy than a sad story, right? To all of us, who just want to sing and make music and perform to people who never really know us but—god, for one shining night, ᴛʜᴇsᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴜs ғᴇᴇʟ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴡᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇᴍ, like each song became a doorway to their lives and beyond, and they let us have that key, so we can open them up with every note we sing on stage.”  
  
Without realizing it, you covered your face with both hands, “Gah! I’m probably rambling again because I’m overwhelmed with the response I got from the audience earlier. It’s…incredible how far I’ve come in such a short time. I honestly don’t want this success to change me and…it won’t. At least not in a way where I’d hate myself one day and not find the passion to make music anymore.”  
  
Armstrong was quiet. He said nothing as the deluge of these sentiments flooded the small chasm between you two. But when you matched his silence, he finally leaned on his haunches, resting the elbows on the knees.  
  
“There is power in music that changes lives every day,” he remarked in a hushed tone, like reciting a prayer. “And being at the epicenter of that should shake us to our core. Because, when you think about it, we sing for the people who don’t have a voice, or enough self-awareness to understand that there are certain things that are easier to express in song until they hear one that sᴘᴇᴀᴋs sᴏ ᴅᴇᴇᴘʟʏ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ sᴏᴜʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ᴜᴘ ᴡᴏᴜɴᴅs, ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍᴀɴᴇɴᴛ sᴄᴀʀs.”  
  
You wiped some moisture at the corners of your eyes. But you dared not cry. It’s so foolish to get to that point, especially in front of Billie Joe Armstrong who looked like he was so good at keeping it together for the both of you—no matter how much he’s able to let it loose and crazy when performing. The paradox of that was inviting somehow, eliciting a rumbling in your heart that threatened to choke the air out of you.  
  
How can the man sitting across you be the same one you’ve watched a dozen times in videos before, who didn’t look like he could ever hold back anything, so he’d recklessly spill his guts and gore into the center stage, in a new city every night, with an audience who grow as old and stay as young as he does.  
  
“I, uh, want to hug you so bad, by the way. But don’t mind me being—”  
  
But Armstrong was on his feet next to slide on the vacant side of the sofa so he can drape an arm over your shoulder. You caved in without another moment’s hesitation and leaned your head to rest on top of his chest, mere inches away from the heart you could hear beat more loudly than you should. But your ear was pressed near that spot, so you just let rhythm of him to sway you to close your eyes.  
  
Breathing in. Breathing out. You’ve never felt this raw and safe all at once, except with Finneas. But this was different, of course.  
  
From the stereo on the corner of the room, a song shuffled from the current playlist drifted softly with lyrics you know well.  
  
  
  
чσu dídn't hαvє tσ lσσk mч wαч  
чσur єчєs stíll hαunt mє tσ thís dαч  
вut чσu díd.  
чєs, чσu díd  
  
  
  
Your fingers traveled upwards to his sternum concealed by the fabric of his shirt until they formed around the chain of the necklace he had on. You sensed his breath hitch, but he stayed put—as if ᴅᴀʀɪɴɢ you to keep going.  
  
The plane of reality and fantasy blurred for one sweet moment as you tilted your head to look up…only to see that h̲e̲’s̲ ̲a̲l̲s̲o̲ ̲w̲a̲t̲c̲h̲i̲n̲g̲ ̲y̲o̲u̲ through hooded eyes. His breath was warm against the skin of your forehead; exhaled through parted lips.  
  
Lips you couldn’t help but stare at because of this cursed, dangerous angle. You managed to tear your eyes away long enough to gaze into his own instead.  
  
It was so ａｗｆｕｌ; it’s staring at the one thing that not in a million years would ever become y̳o̳u̳r̳s̳.  


  
  
  
чσu dídn't hαvє tσ sαч mч nαmє  
ígnítє mч círcuíts αnd  
stαrt α flαmє  
вut чσu díd  
  


  
  
And then Armstrong said: “I should go. I think we’re up next.”  
  
He broke the spell just like that and pulled his arm away so he can rise to his feet once more. Still dazed and confused, you do your best to collect your bearings. Neither of you looked at each other for a minute or two as he rolled down his sleeves and buttoned them up by the wrists. You don’t even know how the fuck you’re going to keep yourself preoccupied at this point.  
  
  


  
чσu dídn't hαvє tσ smílє αt mє  
чσur grín's thє swєєtєst  
thαt í'vє єvєr sєєn  
вut чσu díd.  
чєs чσu díd  
  


  
  
So you just strutted toward the stereo to shut that fucking thing off.  
  
“Oh!” you snapped your head towards his direction seconds later. “Billie Joe, uh, I think…here, try this one for size.”  
  
Armstrong cautiously approached while running his fingers through his hair. He understandably kept his distance too and looked off to the side while you rummaged through your brother’s wardrobe.  
  
“I don’t think he’ll mind. In fact, he’s gonna be over the moon if you put this on later—”  
  
And you pulled a smartly cut creamy beige blazer that was tailored personally for Finneas five years ago before he put on extra muscle bulk, and since Armstrong was in a slighter built than him these days (a few inches shorter), this could work. You have a feeling it should.  
  
He didn’t say anything and simply eyed the blazer for what seemed like an eternity of a pause. Finally, he nodded and said, “Let’s give it a try.”  
  
You almost faltered as he took the garment from you and stepped away so he can watch himself in the mirror while he slid it on. Secretly, you hoped he’d let you put it on him—but that means you’d be touching again. And that would be so, so ｗｒｏｎｇ at this point.  
  
“Huh,” he cracked a small, appreciative smile. “This is a rad jacket. You sure Finneas wouldn’t mind? You should tell him either way.”  
  
“I will,” you remained a few feet behind Armstrong, watching his reflection and meeting his eyes through that glass that seemed to sᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛᴇ your two worlds again, that were never supposed to collide in the first place.  
  
“But you should hurry back there to the backstage. I also gotta, you know, announce you guys in.”  
  
He glanced over his shoulder to regard you with a look you can’t decipher. Was he angry? Sad? Afraid? ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ʙɪᴛ ᴏғ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ?  
  
“Alright. Catch you later.”  
  
And he walked out without another word, taking along more than just your brother’s blazer with him as he left you there to struggle staying vertical from where you stand.  
  
It was only when one of the security called you out that you found the fortitude to move forward at last and not look back at the devastating remnants inside the room where you almost could have taken what you wanted—and damn it all  
  
—ｄａｍｎ ｅｖｅｒｙｔｈｉｎｇ could come next.  
  


* * *


	5. All the time you knew it, I guess you always knew it

* * *

“twєntч-fívє чєαrs αgσ,  
вíllíє jσє αrmstrσng,  
míkє dírnt αnd tré cσσl rєcσrdєd  
thєír ícσníc αlвum, dσσkíє.  
grσwíng up, thєrє wαs nσ вαnd mσrє ímpσrtαnt  
tσ mєσr mч вrσthєr, sσ cєlєвrαtíng dσσkíє  
αnd thєír nєw sínglє fαthєr σf αll,  
plєαsє wєlcσmє grєєn dαч!”

✪➺➺➺  


  
  
The show went on and on, dragging across the backstage where the crew worked tirelessly to keep everything running, then diving into the separate private lounges shared among A-listers and wanna-be-there’s. You had Finneas with you, and two years ago you used to cling to him while you waded through the crowd together—dreading separation as much as you’re annoyed by the interjections of flashing cameras followed by the swirl of questions. But you’re not that kid anymore, and the slow process of embracing how you got to this point in your career is not something to fight, but rather a ride to enjoy. More than a cheap thrill, of course—something awe-inspiring and magical with every verse composed.  
  
You’re proud enough of yourself to admit you deserve this, and you like being famous. Not for the excess and dangers that fame usually comes along with but rather for the approval of people whose opinions matter to you, and meeting strangers in new places almost every day, who connect with you when they hear your voice. You’re happy knowing you’ve given something back to kids everywhere who don’t feel as alone as you’ve felt growing up, in spite of the love and attention you got from your parents and brother.  
  
There was no other place you’d rather be in but the ᴇᴘɪᴄᴇɴᴛᴇʀ that shakes the very core of your soul—like how Armstrong phrased it. This life, the music; it’s a privilege and a responsibility. To be an artist is a social calling just as much as it’s still a badge of individual expression.  
  
You’re not going to waste time being sad anymore, like you’re mournful for a chance at normalcy and anonymity which you probably wouldn’t be very good at handling anyway. This is where it’s at, and you’re going to party with everyone who wants to know you, dance with whoever asks you, and keep Finneas close without having to hoard him out of anxiety.  
  
Two blissful hours starting from the main event down to the after party swept through you, and you felt almost incandescent. Everyone certainly treated you like a lamp, drawn to your warmth and light. They touched you and laughed with you, and nothing felt uncertain anymore and maybe that’s because you’re not holding back. Are you even just a person? No, it was more like you became a new entity altogether. Did you sprout out wings just now? Grew another head, start breathing fire? Are you a dragon?  
  
Yes, you can be a dragon! And you don’t even need drugs to visualize that. Just the company of like-minded folk and the music and lights cascading down your clothes like you’re experiencing the glow from your organs. It’s so fucking out-of-this-world, man! Everyone’s a friend. Everyone is a delight!  
  
At the corner of your eye you spotted someone coming. You turned and welcomed them with open arms. You just assumed this man wanted a hug, because everyone has had offered one to you. But then you saw his face and you laughed, so stupidly embarrassed, when you realized it was no other thanＴｒé Ｃｏｏｌ! And he was just passing by you to get a drink, actually. A drink from the server standing behind you, stupid dumbass! He don’t wanna hug, sheesh! Get out of the way!  
  
“I’ll take that…” Mr. Cool plucked the drink first and then leaned towards you so he could put arm behind over your shoulder in an attempt to swoop you in for a brief hug. “...and also this,” he snickered.  
  
Shit! You were hoping he didn’t notice but he did, GOD!  
  
“Hi, it’s nice to finally meet you in person,” you mumbled into the crook of his shoulder before you both pulled away. You grinned so awkwardly that your teeth began chattering. Your long nails, plastered with art and polish, raked through your hair out of a self-conscious tick and before long you’re rambling, “You guys were awesome and amazing back there, by the way, just…just…wow. Like you’ve been doing this since you were my age, right? Drumming, being fun and just…showing up to every gig you get. So amazing, man. You rock! All of you—you especially. Like…so much!”  
  
Maybe, just maybe, you should break your No-Booze rule and start drinking. That way, you would have a legitimate reason for being a blubbering mess at the moment. You flipped your dark hair over the back of your shoulders with so much force many times now that it’s a miracle you didn’t decapitate yourself already. But maybe you can use your hair to hide your face. Yeah, let’s do that…let’s comb the strands onto your face and bow your head so it would just look like you’re inspecting the floor--  
  
“Hey, Eilish!” Someone approached and patted you in the shoulder. “Hey, kid. I’m Mike. You know, from Green Day,” he sounded amused for some reason, “You feeling okay? What are you…” and he followed your gaze with an earnest smile, “What’s down there?”  
  
“She’s just shy and a little overwhelmed, I think,” Mr. Cool sipped his champagne and watched you with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. “But I’m not gonna hold that against her. I do have an effect on adolescents like that…” He stretched, still sounding coy as he added, “Mainly because I’m a teenager too. At forty-six. Don’t I look like it?”  
  
Mike shook his head, “Yeah, I don’t think you’re ever gonna grow up either. But that was before the new baby.”  
  
“Stop bringing my baby into this,” Tré lightly slapped Mike on the chest then slung his arm over him without missing a beat, “Speaking of poopy things, how did you like hearing ‘Basketcase’ live for the first time, junior?”  
  
You blinked. “Oh…yeah, it was so cool. Did you—“ Did he? “Never mind, _heh_. I’m just glad to see you perform that close to the stage.”  
  
Tré gave you a funny look. “But didn’t you ask Other Billie for us to do ‘Basketcase’? Or did I dream that? Mike?”  
  
“Nope,” Mike started twirling his sketched-on moustache rather realistically, “I was there. Bill definitely said we should play ‘Basketcase’ instead of ‘When I Come Around’.”  
  
“Oh, man, you would have played that song too? That would have been great!” You said as you subtly looked around for any sign that their frontman was around. But you actually haven’t seen Armstrong in person since that…incident back in the dressing room. _Oops_.  
  
Mike must have read your mind because he pointed his bottle of beer towards a direction and said, “He’s with Adie. They’re talking to Taylor Swift.”  
  
You nodded, all casual, like you didn’t want to flee the scene of a crime all of a sudden, which is exactly how you feel inside. “Right on.”  
  
“So,” Tré uttered, smacking his lips.  
  
“So,” you echoed.  
  
“So,” Mike joined in grinning before taking another swig of his beer. “You having a great time?”  
  
“Yeah, everyone’s so nice,” you wished you could say something more. Why are you acting so weird? You were just randomly goofing around you’re your brother before, even taking selfies and exchanging a few digits with other artists—and now you’re stumped. Because of Tré Cool and Mike Dirnt? Like, yeah, you love Green Day, absolutely. And though you didn’t crush on these guys, they were still pretty important to you as a band with Armstrong. So why are can’t you freely speak your mind around them the same way you had with the man himself or with the dozens other celebrities in this party?  
  
“I like what you did to your hair. Green and black suits you,” Tré reached to touch the top of your head before he pulled away, “Kinda like a tribute to us. Which—let’s admit it—is the only reason you got that dye. You don’t need to confirm I’m right. It’s okay.”  
  
You laughed at his attempt to cushion the tension with humor, “Sure. My hair’s this way for Green Day. That’s an official story now. Tell the press.”  
  
You were less nervous as the minute ticked by at least, but you’re still hardly able to meet their gazes. For some reason, you felt like you’re being scrutinized. Like…kinda like when the guy you’re into brought his friends to introduce you—except it’s not, but the anxiety you’re getting is sort of stemming from that. You don’t think Armstrong would have told them about the incident, but it still made you stay on your toes, afraid that somehow the other shoe will drop. You just need another soda. That should do the trick.  
  
Someone placed a hand over your shoulder next. It was gentle, almost like it’s considerate in its intrusion. You turned and immediately saw her smile, and that alone sent you reeling back mentally as if you’ve been splashed by water. That smile paired with those olive eyes, and you forgot you even needed to breathe, yet you managed to mumble, “Oh, god! Hi!”  
  
Adrienne Armstrong leaned in for a hug next, and she rubbed the sides of your arms as she did, almost as if she’s making sure you’re getting enough warmth. “That was such a splendid performance earlier,” she said as soon as she pulled away to look into your eyes, “And thank you for introducing the guys too. Hold on—” she waved to the side, “Babe, come here!”  
  
Her husband strode into the scene with measly steps almost, like he’s unsure of his approach. Was he still thinking about what happened (or _almost_ happened) back in the dressing room? You tried to catch his eye, but he was now staring at Adrienne with a look that you rarely glimpse on someone else’s face—like this was the first time he’s seen the woman he’s been married to for almost thirty years. It made the green in his eyes glow, like there’s actual light behind them. He put an arm over her shoulder and listened to her say something.  
  
You’re ashamed to admit that you wish ιт ωαѕ уσυ нє ¢συℓ∂ ℓσσк αт ℓιкє тнαт. What was it like—you want to ask Adie—to possess ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪs ᴍᴀɴ’s ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ sᴛᴏᴘ ᴛᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ʙʏ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇʀᴇ sɪɢʜᴛ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜ? The humbling knowledge that such a thing will never happen on your end almost sent you to a dark corner somewhere in your mind. At stressful times like this, your Tourette’s would act up. Your education in dance has helped you gain more control of those ticks though, and you really don’t want to make a fool of yourself in front of Armstrong. Or at least more than you’ve already had.

You quelled the rumblings in your imagination in which a certain memory fights to surface over and over.  
  
  


  
[ The ｎｅａｒｎｅｓｓ of him--  
  
its heat emanating on skin, from breath;  
  
the ｎｅａｒｎｅｓｓ of him--  
  
secret in his eyes peering back at you;  
  
a maddening nearness of ℓιρѕ --  
  
separated by consequence  
in the aftermath of any collision;  
  
as tightly wound as feelings  
choking you like a иσσѕє --  
  
a promise as sure  
as the ωє∂∂ιиg яιиg on his finger ]  
  


  
  
“Billie,” Adrienne addressed you, snapping you out of your reverie. You hoped you weren’t blushing. The older woman didn’t seem to notice as she then turned to her spouse, “And Billie. I want to show you both something real quick. Can you come with us, B?” she directed that question to you. How is it possible someone’s smile can remove years from their face like that? Of course he’s still crazy about this woman. He would be a fool not to be…  
  
(And ‘B҉’? She can call you that all she wants. ᴮᵁᶻᶻ. ᴮᴱᴱ ᴱᴹᴼᵀᴵᶜᴼᴺ!)  
  
“Alright, sure,” you beamed at Adie and didn’t hesitate to take her hand when she offered it. She and Armstrong walk ahead with their arms still linked. It almost seemed like you’re тнєιя ¢нιℓ∂ tagging along, and that made your blood run cold. You could have easily been, given their youngest Jacob’s age. Shaking off that uncomfortable and unpleasant association, you looked over your shoulder and was relieved Mike and Tré decided to come along.  
  
“We had this set up for us,” Adie took you to a booth, the size cozy enough for at least a group of eight people to lounge in. It’s definitely a private room, which would allow closer friends and acquaintances to mingle separately from the larger crowds. On instinct, you tried to see where Finneas was right now so you can fetch him, but then another woman was giving you a hug next. You don’t recognize her until Mike introduced her as his wife Brittney. She was quite pretty and sweet, especially when she chatted you about your album and some of her favorite tracks from it. This sort of thing always embarrasses and thrills you each time you’d encounter appreciation from anyone significantly older. And you could always tell when it’s genuine, much like Brittney’s praise because she was so detailed about her comments.  
  
“You and your brother sing wonderful love songs together,” the woman said, “I kid you not, I almost always cry when you belt out ‘ί Ļόνέ чόù’. The song is just so emotional and pure. I don’t know what it is about your vocal range that really gets you here…in the heart.”  
  
“Wow,” you could only smile awkwardly. Another nervous tick, the smiling. ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴛᴇᴅ sᴍɪʟɪɴɢ. Still hate it. “Thanks so much.”  
  
“Speaking of…” Adrienne stole you the next instant by gingerly pulling you by the wrist. You’ve never met anyone so subtle in her assertiveness before. She’s considerate enough to give you space to keep up, but she was obviously more in control of the situation than she lets on.  
  
“Why don’t you stand over here,” she urged you to do so in a spot while the rest of the guys circled around in their respective sofas. Tré chose a reclining chair which allowed him to stretch his legs while Mike sat with his hand squeezed together in front of his lap. Their contrasting expressions—Tré with that smirk and Mike with his mildly contrite look—made you quite suspicious of what’s about to unfold. And where’s Armstrong?  
  
There are somehow two other men who joined the ranks. You recognized one of them was Jason (the unsung fourth Green Day member) and…Kevin, was it? The good-looking dude from The Longshot who sidelines as their backup guitarist, that one. The usual exchange of pleasantries happened before your attention was drawn in by Adrienne again, who by now was letting Finneas inside the booth. Oh, thank god! The sight of your brother guaranteed you are safe, no matter what.  
  
Not like you were in any danger to begin with, but these are all grown men and women—veterans in their own ways—and they seemed more intent on talking about what you are up to after this. As if it really mattered to them. Everyone you’ve encountered in the ‘biz is just too nice these days, while the rest of the world—your toughest critics— ᴏғᴛᴇɴ ᴀʀᴇɴ’ᴛ.  
  
“Been looking all over for you,” Finneas stood beside you, with an acoustic guitar strapped around his person. Like, what the fuck?  
  
“Why do you have that right now?” In hindsight you would later scold yourself for not realizing soon what was about to take place, up until your brother was strumming a few chords for warm-up. Once the reality hits you, the look on your face must have shown panic because the next thing you know, Armstrong himself had walked over. And here you thought he’s intent to ｈｉｄｅ behind his wife or something…(did that sound bitter in your head just now? Because you totally weren’t being a bitch).  
  
“Sorry to spring this on you, but don’t worry we’re all going to take turns,” he explained, “It’s a riff raff of a sort, but you’re not obligated to join in if you want to rest your voice. Finny here—” he patted your brother on the shoulder, “—agreed to play for us.”  
  
“Yeah. Also, is that my jacket?”  
  
Armstrong looked almost sheepish as he replied, “Billie lent it to me. Hope you don’t mind. I can always—”  
  
And then he started rolling the sleeves off his body. The material has already reached down his elbows before Finneas stopped him, “No, it’s cool. You can keep it if you like it enough. Looks really great on you too, man. And knowing that Billie Joe Armstrong has something of mine that he can flaunt around would be a real ego boost!”  
  
You snickered under your breath. And you thought your infatuation is bad…  
  
“Alright, kid,” Armstrong pulled the sleeves back on and the rubbed his palms over his chest to flatten any crease, “Thanks! I’m definitely going to wear it as often as I can. I will have to talk to my wardrobe people about it though. If anything else, I can just wear it for personal reasons outside of bookings and shows.”  
  
He looked at you just in time as Brittney and Adrienne called Finneas to their side to discuss something. And, just like that, you’re standing together face-to-face again.

Lamely, you muttered: “Hey.”  
  
Armstrong crossed his arms and quipped, “Hey.”  
  
Good banter. Can the ground ｃｒａｃｋ open and swallow you whole ｎｏｗ?  
  
“That was a pretty sweet introduction at the stage earlier. Glad you were the one who did it,” he remarked though he didn’t exactly meet your eyes. He would occasionally look behind you to nod at one of the guys who would call him about something inane. “Couldn’t ask for a better speaker.”  
  
“Well, thanks for performing ‘Basketcase’, as requested,” you retorted, “I mean, Tré was just telling me earlier that you switched songs at the last minute. Was that true?”  
  
“Yeah,” Armstrong’s gaze landed on your face finally. αи∂ уσυ ωιѕнє∂ ιт ∂ι∂и’т. The memory from the dressing room earlier was still so vivid, and you’re afraid just thinking about it colored your cheeks. The green in his eyes flickered with the same type of ʀᴇᴄᴏɢɴɪᴛɪᴏɴ. Understandably, he looked off and cut the conversation short right there. He might as well. If you talked longer while surrounded by these people, you might just blurt out something completely insane and scare him away. He’s already spooked by your behavior enough.  
  
And then you noticed him clasping his hands together—particularly how he's rubbing the silver band on his finger almost absentmindedly.  
  
Was it itchy? A possible tick?  
  
No, don’t read into that. It’s probably accidental. Much like how everything has been between you two. If you perceive every vibe you picked up on with the bated breath of someone so desperate to find meaning in it, then how are you better than any girl who’s been lovesick and stupid enough to believe your feelings were ever going to be returned back tenfold?  
  
You straightened your back with the posture of someone ᴡʜᴏ ᴅɪᴅ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ, who was raised more differently than the peers she never got to have growing up, being homeschooled and all. But then Armstrong—while standing beside his wife now a good three feet away—cast a glance on your spot and held your stare.  
  
It was the look of someone who also knew better and yet cared so little that he still smiled right now. He meant nothing by it, possibly. And yet you’ve told across interviews in the past that—in addition to despising smiling—you also don’t enjoy other people doing it for you. If only Armstrong belonged to that collective, it would have been easy to ignore the one he bequeathed. You could have turned your back, all ice-cold and casual, and never speak of the incident. ᴵᶠ ᴼᴺᴸᵞ, ᴵᶠ ᴼᴺᴸᵞ, ᴵᶠ ᴼᴺᴸᵞ ᴴᴱ ᵂᴬˢ ᴶᵁˢᵀ ᴬᴺᴼᵀᴴᴱᴿ ᴳᵁᵞ ᵀᴼ ᵞᴼᵁ…  
  
Against every fiber of your being, ʏᴏᴜ sᴍɪʟᴇᴅ ʙᴀᴄᴋ. Armstrong ceased looking at once, almost as if he was merely satisfied for stealing your smile one moment before he was gone the next; just banished there on that corner with the true love of his life whom you no doubt his smiles for were a lot ｓｗｅｅｔｅｒ.  
  
You’ve never hated and wanted someone in equal measure than the way you do now with this blissfully unaware middle-aged prєttч вσч.  
  
ᶠᵁᶜᴷ ᵞᴼᵁ ᴬᴺᴰ ᵞᴼᵁᴿ ᴬᶜᴴᴱᵞ, ᴵᶜᴷᵞ ᴴᴱᴬᴿᵀ. You’re better than how you feel, girl.  
  
Armstrong and his wife glided forward to meet you in your spot again, and you unconsciously blended against Finneas for support, melding half of your body against your big brother like some scared toddler.  
  
Soon enough—mercifully so—the riff raff thing started.  
  
Tré capped it with ‘ᴅᴏᴍɪɴᴀᴛᴇᴅ ʟᴏᴠᴇ sʟᴀᴠᴇ’. Of course it had to be that song.  
  


  
caυѕe ι love ғeelιn' dιrтy  
and ι love ғeelιn' cнeap  
and ι love ιт wнen yoυ нυrт мe  
ѕo drιve тнoѕe ѕтapleѕ deep  
  
ι wanт yoυ тo ѕlap мe  
and call мe naυgнтy  
pυт a вelт ѕander agaιnѕт мy ѕĸιn  
ι wanт тo ғeel paιn all over мy вody  
can'т waιт тo вe pυnιѕнed ғor мy ѕιnѕ.  


  
  
Just like everyone else, you clapped and cheered along but pretended not to know any of the words by heart. Because you do. Naturally.  
  
You glanced over at your brother and was pleased to see at least one of you looked more comfortable. Finneas’ cheeks were tinged with pink, complementing the fire of his hair. His blue eyes were all sparkly that looking at him from this angle was enough to calm your nerves. The safest place you’ll ever be was by his side. Slipping your hand over his arm as he continued to strum the guitar, you decided to focus only on him for the rest of this unexpected soirée.  
  
Another song was thrown in, which you recognized was ‘ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ sᴇᴀsᴏɴ’, and it surprised you to find that Adrienne can also belt out a tune. She was rather self-conscious about it at first before her husband took that time to spin her around for a dance until every other married couple in the group paired off, leaving you and your sibling to look on with matching goofy and somewhat awkward smiles. It wasn’t that weird to watch the Armstrongs sing a playful duet right now, and there was warmth in how they embraced and danced that reminded you of your own parents.  
  
You understand that—in spite your experiences and accomplishments—that you know less of love and relationships much like any other kid your age. You’ve had boyfriends, sure since you were around fifteen, but they’ve came and gone as certain as the four seasons went by. None could hold your interest that long and, besides, you’re kind of mean and eager to move in a pace too hard to follow. There’s brashness to your attitude that makes a guy feel he’s not fulfilling your needs somehow when in reality you just don’t do clingy or wishy-washy or all the gooey stuff couples would do.  
  
Not that you resented those things completely; maybe with the right guy you can make the necessary adjustments. But at this stage in your life? When there are so many doors that have opened for you out there in the world? ᴡʜʏ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛɪᴇᴅ ᴅᴏᴡɴ? Plenty of time ahead to dwell on relationship stuff. For now you just want to sing and perform and make another record that people can find pieces of themselves in. Your one constant goal was тσ ѕυяραѕѕ тнє αятιѕт уσυ ωєяє уєѕтєя∂αу. Self-improvement. Self-discovery. Self-actualization. That’s where it’s at.  
  
But as you gazed at the Armstrongs whilst they peered at each other’s faces, looking so enamored as if the world outside didn’t exist at all, you wonder—oh, you can’t help but wonder…is it in the cards for you someday, to be bound to someone without actually fearing you’d lose independence; to live in separate moments as two people yet achieve harmony as one? It doesn’t even have to be marriage that’s the end goal here. Just this inner peace and content with the knowledge that yoυ нave ѕoмeone yoυ’re ιn love wιтн wнoм yoυ don’т нave тo love yoυrѕelғ any leѕѕ ғor…  
  
“Hey!” Mike was suddenly standing beside you and patting your shoulder, “You seem dazed. Everything alright?”  
  
Brittney came over too, “Wanna sing a song? I’d love to hear you sing again. But no pressure, of course!”  
  
“Yeah,” you nodded, finding that you’re more enthused than how you must have behaved on the outside, “I’d sing something. For you guys, since you’ve been nice to invite me and Finneas here.”  
  
Your brother leaned to whisper into your ear what song you should play, and you whisper it back. He was baffled for a second or two before he responded only by adjusting the strings of his guitar. Truth of the matter was that this will be the first time you’d sing this particular song in public, let alone have an accompaniment. But you and Finneas have this unbelievable musical chemistry in which he can always pick up where you want to leave off and the other way around. It’s a testament to your bond as family, and when communication occasionally breaks down around the house, music was the language that you tend to apologize in and make up for.  
  
“Bear with us, alright?” Your brother addressed your new friends, “We, uh, haven’t practiced this one yet. So in a way, this is a first for everyone here.”  
  
By this point the couples have all clustered to form a semi-circle around the pair of you, each taking a place in the sofas.  
  
Finneas looked over to you, expecting that you’d open with the first verse already by yourself then later he’ll strum the notes in earnest. So you did. You stared down at the floor, almost as if to summon another voice from the depths. Your fingers traced the hem of your loose clothing, the polished nails still looking exquisite even as they tugged the material. Channeling what you know about the spectacular starlight of a woman who sang this ballad long ago—all while blending your heart and soul in the rendition—you opened your throat to sing, like this was the first time you have ever done it:  


♪ dєαr mr. gαвlє,  
í αm wrítíng thíѕ tσ чσu  
αnd í hσpє thαt чσu wíll rєαd ít ѕσ чσu'll knσw ♬  
  
  
♪ mч hєαrt вєαtѕ líkє α hαmmєr  
αnd í ѕtuttєr αnd í ѕtαmmєr  
єvєrч tímє í ѕєє чσu αt thє pícturє ѕhσw ♬  
  
  
♪ í guєѕѕ í'm juѕt αnσthєr fαn σf чσurѕ  
αnd í thσught í'd wrítє αnd tєll чσu ѕσ…... ♬  


  
  
  
When you looked up at last, the first pair of eyes you’ve made contact with was Adrienne’s. She’s murmuring the words along, almost like a silent prayer. You don’t know how to feel about the fact that she knew this song by heart as well, but you looked at her anyway until this constriction in your chest loosened and you were belting out with more careless abandon. Eyes fluttering shut, you pictured h̲i̲s̲ ̲f̲a̲c̲e̲ in your mind’s eye (even though he’s ʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ in front of you already) because it’s all you can do for now; lest you give away yourself in front of all his friends. And his wife especially whom you could never really despise, since you’re far too at awe with her.  
  


  
♪ Ｙｏｕ ｍａｄｅ ｍｅ ｌｏｖｅ ｙｏｕ  
í dídn't wαnnα dσ ít,  
í dídn't wαnnα dσ ít ♬  
  
♪ Ｙｏｕ ｍａｄｅ ｍｅ ｌｏｖｅ ｙｏｕ  
αnd αll thє tímє чσu knєw ít,  
í guєѕѕ чσu αlwαчѕ knєw ít ♬  
  
  
♪ чσu mαdє mє hαppч,  
ѕσmєtímєѕ чσu mαdє mє glαd  
вut thєrє wєrє tímєѕ, ѕír,  
чσu mαdє mє fєєl ѕσ ѕαd ♬  
  
  
♪ чσu mαdє mє ѕígh  
'cαuѕє í dídn't wαnnα tєll чσu,  
í dídn't wαnnα tєll чσu ♬  
  
♪ í thínk чσu'rє grαnd,  
thαt'ѕ truє чєѕ í dσ,  
'dєєd í dσ, чσu knσw í dσ ♬  
  
  
♪ í muѕt tєll чσu whαt í'm fєєlíng  
thє vєrч mєntíσn σf чσur nαmє  
ѕєndѕ mч hєαrt rєєlíng  
Ｙｏｕ ｍａｄｅ ｍｅ ｌｏｖｅ ｙｏｕ! ♬  
  


  
  
You paused and then started giggling a little. What did you find funny exactly? Well, everything! This was so silly! You’re practically s̲i̲n̲g̲i̲n̲g̲ ̲a̲ ̲h̲e̲a̲r̲t̲f̲e̲l̲t̲ ̲c̲o̲n̲f̲e̲s̲s̲i̲o̲n̲ ̲t̲o̲ ̲a̲ ̲m̲a̲r̲r̲i̲e̲d̲ ̲m̲a̲n̲ ̲a̲m̲o̲n̲g̲ ̲t̲h̲e̲m̲, and it’s all going way over their heads, including your brother’s, and he knew you far better than anyone in the world. So yeah, freakin’ hilarious, kid! And as you looked across your captive audience, you caught Mike raising his phone with the light on as he and Tré began swaying and singing the last verse of the song together. They got the melody right, but hardly the lyrics. They even sounded drunk about it too. At this point you’ve burst out laughing.  
  
But you at least wanted to get to the very final notes so you belt out again:  
  


  
  
♪ í dσn't cαrє whαt hαppєnѕ,  
lєt thє whσlє wσrld ѕtσp  
αѕ fαr αѕ í'm cσncєrnєd,  
чσu'll αlwαчѕ вє thє tσp  
'cαuѕє чσu knσw  
Ｙｏｕ ｍａｄｅ ｍｅ ｌｏｖｅ ｙｏｕ! ♬  
  


  
  
The two men joined you on that declaration while reaching out with both arms, and—happily enough—you approached closer to take each hand and squeeze. On cue, Finneas started singing another song, which you recognized was one of his own compositions. It’s a cheery number, which allowed Mike and Tré to dance with you in a triad of chaos. And then there’s more dancing after that as they passed you around like you’re in a debutante or some shit, and each person in the room got a turn to spin and even dip you!  
  
Well, the latter was mostly Tré, to be fair. He did it about four times and you laughed each time, and something from your childhood flashed—a snippet of your dad doing almost the same thing when you were eight and have been taking dance lessons. This memory, coupled by the all-around good vibes in the room, almost made you forget the existential crap you’ve been dwelling on earlier. Your mind was such a dreary place at times that you often need to be reminded that you’re still so young; no matter the breadth of things you can’t understand, there are friends and laughter in between those vague spaces that you should be grateful for.  
  
“Stop!” you slapped Tré’s hand away, “No more, dude! I’m getting dizzy!”  
  
And as you stepped away to avoid him while grinning and putting your fists up, you bumped against one of the other men. Armstrong had put an arm over your shoulder before you even realized it was him. Your bodies haven’t been this close since the Rolling Stone photo shoot. You couldn’t even turn because he was holding you in place and swaying from side-to-side. Suddenly Adrienne was in front of you, and she’s clasped your hands as she essentially sandwiched you between herself and her husband in a playful slow dance. Oh, god! This isn’t giving you вυттєяfℓιєѕ in your stomach at all!  
  
The three of you moved around in what little space you can navigate together, as Finneas was playing another cover song; this time joined by Kevin with his own guitar. Armstrong had slung his arm more securely around your person so that the whole thing circled around your neck. The heat—his familiar scent—the daring prospect for the gap to further close between you—if you weren’t dizzy before, you certainly are now!  
  
You could feel your cheeks quaking as you alternate between smiling and attempting to stop it. Meanwhile, Adrienne told you not to be so nervous as she grooved to the tune or whatever—but h̳o̳w̳ ̳t̳h̳e̳ ̳f̳u̳c̳k̳ could she expect you to calm down and just dance?  
  
Ｍａ’ａｍ! Your spouse is holding me against his chest right now. And you’re permitting it! Like—like, uh—how dare you? Both of you?  
  
Always to the rescue, Finneas took your free hand next so he can reel you towards him. He then handed his guitar to Armstrong who took it without another word. You hugged and danced with your brother for a while as you hear Kevin, Jason and Mike sing a familiar song though you weren’t sure about the title. You had no idea how long this was going to last for, but pretty soon the excitement slowed down, and you’re left leaning on Finneas for solidarity while your mind tried to catch up.  
  
You were only just beginning to feel normal again when Armstrong stepped over, with the guitar still strapped around his person. He said, “Hey, come with me for a sec…” he looked over at his wife, who nodded once, before he was carefully leading you out of the room and into another through a door on the left. Finneas didn’t follow, and you didn’t have time to look over your shoulder to see what he was doing to preoccupy himself with.  
  
How could you, when Armstrong has just grasped your fingers inside his own hand like that? The touch was gentle and his palm was surprisingly cool against your skin. It was very much in the same vein when Adrienne took your hand earlier; only that this felt more intense and troubling, judging by the staccato beats of your heart as if it’s threatening to collapse on you any second now. Please, don’t, you stupid shit—at least not until you figure out where he was taking you and why.  
  
This next room was smaller in comparison to the one you just came from. It’s also scarcely lit, with only two small lamps on the wall to illuminate the space. There are a few chairs, some equipment of sort, and a plain drum set in a corner. But you ignored those in favor of focusing only on the older man before you. He’s leaning against the wall where one of the lamps was glowing. The effect made him seem like an apparition from the shadows, and it turned his usually bright eyes a shade that’s almost gray.  
  
From the door that’s left ajar, you could still hear the faint sounds of people playing lively music of their own. Finneas’ voice stood out only because you associate it with a lot of fond memories. But even then you also ignored the security your brother provides to take a risk on this solitude you found yourself in with the only person in the world right now you’ve fantasized for a long time to be alone with.  
  
It’s surreal. Who would have guessed you’d feel more excited about that than being alone with, say, Bieber? You’ve been head over heels with that guy for a while now, but with Billie Joe Armstrong facing you with that strange look in his eye you almost forgot other men exist.  
  
“Wh—Why are we here exactly?” Your gaze fell on his fingers as he started plucking the strings, “Wait a sec, don’t tell me you’re going to…”  
  
To what? Sing to you? SHIT! It seemed like the only possibility…  
  
“Uh, listen, Billie,” he said, “About what happened in the dressing room.”  
  
Oh, crap--  
  
“You told me something very honest; I knew it came from the heart, and that it took a lot of courage to discuss it in the open,” he held your gaze as he spoke, “And I guess I want to return the favor. This... ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴇ, ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴡᴇ ʜᴀᴠᴇ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ.”  
  
Your face felt numb as you listened to him go on, all while you held your breath. If you say something, even dare blink, then it’s over. You will wake up in bed and realize it had been a dream all along.  
  
“We have an ᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴀɴᴅɪɴɢ,” he clarified as a smile tugged at his lips, “Which is pretty weird because of the generation gap and all, but what you said before…uh,” he suddenly looked like he wasn’t sure how to go on so he ran his fingers across the fret board of the guitar once more, “Listen, I looked up Judy Garland after the show has wrapped up, you know, just to—just to get a better sense of what you meant. Adie actually knows more about her because she was born in Minnesota too, and she’s seen a few of those movies back in the day. Anyway…”  
  
Armstrong took a deep breath before he looked to the side as he explained, “I assume you know about…just the general landscape of what happened to me at IHeart and the rehab thing…” Clearly this was not a subject he brought up often nor felt like he must, “…and, you know, I’ve been moderating and controlling myself much better than back then, but you said something about…back in the Rolling Stone interview, do you remember?”  
  
You cocked your head to the side and gave him a questioning look.  
  
“You said that…even after all the shit I’ve been through, I’m still sane.”

Right. That part where you also called him ‘gorgeous’ (but you ain’t rehashing that particular comment).  
  
He inspected you for a bit before he added, “And now this Judy Garland thing coming into focus for you as you made all these realizations—I just…I guess I want you to know that you’re not alone on that. Reflecting on your life and choices is the kind of self-aware exploration you must do especially when you’re in this industry. It’s tough everywhere, and being an artist—you expose a lot of who you are even when you don’t want to, for public criticism and consummation. Even with the promise of money and prestige—this fucking business can swallow you if you aren’t careful. And…it did Judy Garland. Tragically.”  
  
Without meaning to, you uttered, “You were the same age when she died, you know. Forty-seven.”  
  
“Yeah,” His frown unbelievably made him younger—even small and scared. You mentioned that too.”  
  
“Pills,” you knew this was a tight rope to walk on, but you said it anyway, “Accidental overdose. And I read that…you used to mix your pills and drink back then too. So I’m…glad you stopped.”  
  
You tugged at the hem of your shirt, “If I met you then and have grown close to you the way I feel now—and something just as awful happened because of drugs and carelessness, Billie Joe, I would have—I don’t know, cried myself to sleep for a few nights? It would really hurt to lose someone I’ve admired for a long time and then got to know. So…”  
  
Your voice cracked as you refused to meet his stare, “Don’t fucking do shit like that anymore, okay?”  
  
He was very quiet. It was rather eerie. So you did look at him again, and he watched you with an almost serene resignation before he cupped the side of your cheek to wipe away a stray tear you had no idea you just shed.  
  
You sniffed and quickly dabbed your eyes with your thumbs before more tears would leak. Armstrong still wasn’t saying anything. Instead he started to pluck away a tune. What was this song? You couldn’t place it at the moment for the life of you. But it all started to make sense when he sang the words next:  
  


♪ ís чσur hєαrt síngíng σut σf tunє  
αrє чσur єчєs just síngíng thє вluєs  
dírtч rєcσrds frσm αnσthєr tímє  
sσmє вlσσd stαíns σn чσur shσєs ♬  
  
  
♪ nσ σnє rєαllч knσws αвσut чσur sσul  
αnd í вαrєlч rєαllч knσw чσur nαmє  
вurníng rhчthms αnd pσstíng líєs  
αnd α вunch σf fσσls drσwn ín shαmє ♬  
  
  
♪ αmч, dσn't чσu gσ  
í wαnt чσu αrσund  
síngín' wσαh-wσαh-wσαh, plєαsє dσn't gσ  
dσ чσu wαnnα вє α fríєnd σf mínє?  
dσ чσu wαnnα вє α fríєnd σf mínє? ♬  
  


  
This has to be a dream for no version of reality should exist so perfectly like this at the moment, and yet here it was. You’re caught at the heart of things entwined, being killed softly as he strummed your pain along with his into verses he’d written that honor those whose lights have burned out too soon. Judy Garland and Amy Winehouse; women you will never meet yet somehow felt like you have known anyway because Armstrong made you believe that their story could be yours too, not just as cautionary tales but as a glimpse into fears you didn’t even think you had.  
  
Here inside this room where you stood face-to-face and united in self-imposed exile—with only a pair of lamps to keep the darkness at bay-- **ʏᴏᴜ** **ғ** **ᴇʟʟ** **ɪɴ** **ʟᴏᴠᴇ** **ᴡɪᴛʜ** **ʜɪᴍ**.  
  


  
♪ díd чσu tαttσσ α luckч chαrm  
tσ kєєp чσu σut σf hαrms wαч?  
wαrdíng σff αll єvíl sígns  
вut ít nєvєr rєαllч kєpt чσu sαfє ♬  
  
  
♪ nσw чσu'rє tσσ чσung fσr thє gσldєn αgє  
'cαusє thє rєcσrd вín's вєєn rєplαcєd  
twєntч sєvєn, gσnє wíthσut α trαcє  
αnd чσu wαlkєd αwαч frσm чσur drink ♬  
  


  
  
Suddenly, your hand reached to rest on the curve of your brother’s guitar as Armstrong continued to strum and sing. If he ever noticed, he didn’t say anything and just went on, tightening the strings that connect you to him. You took a step forward to close some of the gap, and that’s when he looked at you again for a few intervals before the chorus. There are curiously no more barriers between you; not the age gap, or his loving wife, or the fact that you’re still just a kid who didn’t know better, who’s seen so much of the world already yet still need someone to hold your hand through most of it.  


  
  
♪ αmч, dσn't чσu gσ  
í wαnt чσu αrσund  
síngín' wσαh-wσαh-wσαh, plєαsє dσn't gσ  
dσ чσu wαnnα вє α fríєnd σf mínє?  
dσ чσu wαnnα вє α fríєnd σf mínє? ♬  


  
  
Nothing existed in this vacuum but тнιѕ ѕong. нιѕ voιce. тнoѕe eyeѕ.  


  
  
♪ ís чσur hєαrt síngíng σut σf tunє  
αrє чσur єчєs just síngíng thє вluєs  
dírtч rєcσrds frσm αnσthєr tímє  
sσmє вlσσd stαíns σn чσur shσєs ♬  
  
  
♪ mαч í hαvє thís lαst dαncє  
вч chαncє íf wє shσuld mєєt?  
cαn чσu wrítє mє α lullαвч?  
sσ wє cαn síng чσu tσ slєєp ♬  
  
♪ αmч, dσn't чσu gσ  
í wαnt чσu αrσund  
síngín' wσαh-wσαh-wσαh, plєαsє dσn't gσ  
dσ чσu wαnnα вє α fríєnd σf mínє?  
dσ чσu wαnnα вє α

fríєnd σf mínє? ♬  


  
  
He plucked the last strings of the song before he let go of the guitar so he could put his hands on your shoulders next to give you a reassuring squeeze.  
  
“It’s okay,” he said, “I’m not ready for anyone to lose me either.”  
  
And then he was kissing you--  
  
—on a spot in your forehead close to the hairline. The contact lingered so tenderly upon your skin that he might as well have indeed kissed your lips. You’d most likely crumble into pieces if he had, so you’re almost—ａｌｍｏｓｔ!—glad it didn’t happen.  
  
Somehow you were out of breath when he pulled away and continued to gaze fondly at you as he brushed the hair from the side of your neck.  
  
You recall a passage from a poem you read long ago. You were probably nine or ten when it captivated you first, Of course, you only fully understood the meaning until this very moment as he helped shed light upon the mystery of its verses that eluded you before;  


  
  
Ｙｏｕ ｌｏｖｅｄ ｍｅ ｆｏｒ ａｎ ｈｏｕｒ  
Ｂｕｔ ｏｎｌｙ ｗｉｔｈ ｙｏｕｒ ｅｙｅｓ;  
  
Ｙｏｕｒ ｌｉｐｓ Ｉ ｃｏｕｌｄ ｎｏｔ ｃａｐｔｕｒｅ  
Ｂｙ ｓｔｏｒｍ ｏｒ ｂｙ ｓｕｒｐｒｉｓｅ.  
  
  
Ｙｏｕｒ ｍｏｕｔｈ ｔｈａｔ Ｉ ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ  
Ｗｉｔｈ ｒｕｓｈ ｏｆ ｓｕｄｄｅｎ ｐａｉｎ  
  
Ａｓ ｏｎｅ ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒｓ ｓｔａｒｌｉｇｈｔ  
Ｏｒ ｒｏｓｅｓ ａｆｔｅｒ ｒａｉｎ  


  
  
Against any protest of restraint, you found yourself leaning slightly on your tiptoes like you were a mere satellite being pulled into an orbit. You don’t even realize what you were attempting to do until Armstrong flinched away. A second passed. And then another. Before you could wish yourself away for this line you almost crossed—the man burst out laughing!  
  
ᵀᴴᴱ ᶠᵁᶜᴷ. Ｔｈｅ. ＦＵＣＫ?  
  
Just when you thought getting rejected with a harsh word and dismissal is already the worst thing that could happen right now—!  
  
Your expression crumbled next; you didn’t know whether to cry or get angry at his shocking reaction, but in an instant Armstrong took you into his arms again and squeezed, as if to reassure you that nothing has changed or will change. Even with the guitar serving as a barricade, you had never felt closer. This moment was still precious—your connection together just now as you identified with those fallen stars was as real as ever.  
  
And you’re in love. уσυ’яє ιи ℓσνє ωιтн вιℓℓιє נσє αямѕтяσиg.  
  
“Oh, Billie, Miss Pirate, shhh, you’re alright, kid…” he swayed the two of you from side to side as he hugged you in what cannot be mistaken as nothing more than paternal affection. “What did I tell you back at the car before?”  
  
Without missing a beat, you said, “Don’t flirt with old farts in an Elvis hairdo?” It was hard to think or swallow or even breathe as he held you, and so oblivious of how much this was torture.  
  
“Should I really get that in a T-shirt so you don’t forget?” He peered at your face as he loosened his arms around you. That shit-eating grin he had on was all the reason you needed to shove him back.  
  
“God! You’re such an asshole!”  
  
Armstrong kept laughing, grasping on his guitar as he tried to gain composure again. “I’m sorry, alright? It was just…man, you need to get a hold on this little crush of yours! Or I’m telling your parents! How about that?”  
  
“You—” Horrified, you pushed him again, “You wouldn’t dare!”  
  
“Oh, I will, young lady!”  
  
You tried to suppress your own laughter as you gave him another shove, much weaker than the previous two, “You’re the worst!”  
  
You should hate him, h̶a̶t̶e̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶, ̶h̶a̶t̶e̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶, ̶h̶a̶t̶e̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶d̶e̶a̶t̶h̶. But the way his eyes lit up and the ticklish sound of his laughter as he teased you were enough to confuse how you should react.  
  
Cheekily, Armstrong the reached out and flicked your forehead with his two fingers. And that’s when you did punch him on his shoulder. He gasped at the boldness of the act but only laughed harder.  
  
“Yeah, keep going!” You could barely speak now too as you joined him, “You—you should choke on that—!”  
  
You would have placed a hand on the wall for support as you giggled yourself silly, but then Armstrong removed the guitar so he could set it aside. Afterwards he took your hand and pulled you in for another hug. You pretended to squirm away but returned the contact tenfold instead, until it almost seemed like you’re squeezing him to death. Maybe you should, because he was such a bastard! How could he treat you like you’re just an ignorant little girl? You’re turning eighteen next month, goddammit!  
  
“I hate everything about you, Billie Joe Armstrong,” you muttered as your face was being squished against his chest.  
  
“I know, I know,” he answered in a dismissive tone and a hearty chuckle.  
  
“Oooh!” You heard Tré all of a sudden, “Group hug!”  
  
The overpowering light flooded your vision next. Apparently there’s a medium-sized chandelier on the ceiling this entire time. Tré was on the pair of you in an instant, with Mike and (shit!) Adrienne standing by the doorway, just watching the whole thing unfold. Tré circled around like an excited puppy as he tried to figure out how to squeeze himself into this. So Armstrong swung his arm over his friend and invited him right into the heart of this bullshit you realized is now your life.  
  
“Get in here with us and your sister, Finneas!” Tré called out.  
  
“Hey,” your brother walked over and rubbed your back in a sympathetic gesture because, yes, he understood how awkward and hilarious all of this is.  
  
Ｅｎｄ ｍｅ, you thought through gritted teeth disguised as a smile, all while you’re sandwiched among your brother and people you should have no business bonding with this way—especially because one of them, as you’ve just discovered, is ѕσмєσиє—уσυ’яє—ιи—ℓσνє—ωιтн.  
  
  
ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.ᶠᵁᶜᴷ.

* * *


	6. But Not For Me

* * *

_Never want to hear…  
…that Fate supplies a mate  
  
  
The man that won you…  
…has run off and undone you_

It’s a scary, strange feeling to be in love with someone you know wouldｎｅｖｅｒlook at you the way you deserved to be seen, or ever hold you in his arms the way you’ve always desired. That singular damning fact should discourage you from further contacting him after the AMA show, because you want to believe you weren’t the type of girl who would chase after someone miles out of your league. You’re also three weeks shy of eighteen, and you wanted to start that transition the right way, which meant ᴍᴀɴᴀɢɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴs from now on.  
  
The interview you did with Vanity Fair twice in a row during the same date deserved a third go before 2019 ends, and so you used that opportunity to unpack the things you’ve understood better with the grace of experience. You talked about how many of these same experiences helped you appreciate yourself and others by gaining a more compassionate and smarter perspective.

Of course, you still left out anything that would circle back to the relationship you formed with Billie Joe, i̲f̲ ̲y̲o̲u̲ ̲c̲a̲n̲ ̲e̲v̲e̲n̲ ̲c̲a̲l̲l̲ ̲i̲t̲ ̲t̲h̲a̲t̲.  
  
That actually took effort because it also meant not mentioning other stuff that reminded you of him, like the Judy Garland connection. Just thinking about your previous disclosure with him regarding the fears you had about being in this industry made you αchє in the chest, though not necessarily in a bad way. It’s become almost difficult to look at that incident and not gush about how Billie Joe handled it, even if it also meant acknowledging the fact that such an intense moment shared between you two remained flєєtíng in retrospect. Sure, he lifted your spirits with praise and song, but those were the gestures of someone who could only see you as a child he wants to mentor—and not ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ɢʀᴏᴡɴ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡɪsʜ ʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ʀᴇᴄᴏɢɴɪᴢᴇ.

So here you are, playing Avril’s ‘тнιηgѕ ι’ℓℓ ηєνєя ѕαу’ on repeat. It’s been five days since the AMA’s, and when you’re not dawdling around between your home and the studio, you’re mostly online to chat with friends you don’t see in person anymore, or looking through your feed to see what your fans are up to. You’ve gotten better at filtering the negative feedback; unless constructive and coming from a place of sincere concern, you don’t read or waste time getting mad about it. You’re in entertainment—everyone’s going to want a piece of you or demand things they think they’re entitled to.  
  
You’re not going to let them do to you what they did to Judy Garland and all the other artists whose voices got diluted or muted in favor of chasing that applause.  
  
It was so easy to get lost singing to Avril while you were inside your trailer until one of the PAs walked in to pick you up for your annual Vαɳιƚყ Fαιɾ interview. This is the third one you’ll be doing, and based on the last two you did, it felt only organic that this can be a ʏᴇᴀʀᴇɴᴅ ᴛʀᴀᴅɪᴛɪᴏɴ in which you can reevaluate the summary of your teenage life so far just a month before growing another year older.  
  
The hour went by in blissful, bittersweet reminisce. You’re much ʜᴀᴘᴘɪᴇʀ and confident, and all the misplaced energy from the last two years was finally channeled ᴡɪꜱᴇʟʏ, directed into your one passion in spite of the grueling caveats in between. That’s why it’s easy to proclaim that ‘ｅｉｇｈｔｉｎｇｌｅ’ Billie Eilish next year would just ride the waves as the currents come and never lose sight of her next ventures.  
  
You supposed this newfound boldness is the reason why you finally contacted Armstrong again via text. You know his own schedule is hectic, promoting ƒαтнєя σƒ αℓℓ and shooting music videos alongside performing live in talk shows. But after the Vanity Fair interview wrapped up, you were in a higher spirits than ever before—and the one person you want to share that with isn’t Finneas or your folks or your other dozen close friends.  
  
No longer embarrassed, you sent him yet another wall of text recapping the interview’s highlights, how you’re doing overall, and how grateful you are still for what happened during the AMAs afterparty; when he serenaded you and made the world disappear for a good three minutes with just his voice and the guitar. Of course, the phrasing was much more finesse in your text, because it would suck if you ever made him ᴜɴᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛᴀʙʟᴇ about something that ωαѕ ησт нιѕ ƒαυℓт.  
  
It was yours. You’re the one who ｆｅｌｌ ｉｎ ｌｏｖｅ with a married man.  
  
His response was quick, without even a full minute after you sent the text.  
  


  * ⌜ ѕσ gℓα∂ тσ нєαя ƒяσм уσυ αgαιη, кι∂∂σ ⌟
  * ⌜ тнαт αℓℓ ѕσυη∂ѕ αмαzιηg ⌟
  * ⌜ ιт нα∂ вєєη α ηι¢є ηιgнт συт ωιтн уσυ αη∂ уσυя вяσ ⌟
  * ⌜ уσυ’яє α ƒυ¢кιηg αℓмιgнту ѕтαя, вιℓℓιє єιℓιѕн ριяαтє вαιя∂ σ’¢σηηєℓℓ ⌟



Wow, he finally got your full name right. Did he Google that just now? LOL, probably. Your smile was perfectly innocent enough until the last phrase:  


  * **⌜ ᗰY ᗷIᒪᒪIE ᒍᖇ. ⌟**



Ｈｉｓ. Billie Joe Armstrong deemed you as 🄷 🄸 🅂.

You tried to tell yourself it meant nothing but it did. He wouldn’t have just said that if he didn’t care about you too, because you picked up a long time ago since you’ve met the man that he valued his privacy when it comes to the friends who are in his inner circle. He can be personable and outgoing during events, but only a few of those whom he shares a true connection with will earn a demonstrative display of affection.  
  
Hence, why he kept calling you with that nickname and replying as often as he can when you message him. You knew it’s paternal on his end; he possibly did see you as a̳ ̳k̳i̳d̳ ̳h̳e̳ ̳w̳a̳n̳t̳s̳ ̳t̳o̳ ̳g̳e̳t̳ ̳t̳o̳ ̳k̳n̳o̳w̳ ̳s̳o̳m̳e̳ ̳m̳o̳r̳e̳ ̳a̳n̳d̳ ̳m̳e̳n̳t̳o̳r̳ ̳a̳l̳o̳n̳g̳ ̳t̳h̳e̳ ̳w̳a̳y̳. And you wouldn’t mind—he’s wise but not imposing; self-assured yet not callous; so funny, sweet, gorgeous and still acts like ʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ɴᴏ ɢᴏᴅᴅᴀᴍɴ ɪᴅᴇᴀ ᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ that he’s any of these things.  
  
What’s not to love, really? What’s not to love and grieve that h͎e͎ ͎c͎a͎n͎’͎t͎ ͎b͎e͎ ͎y͎o͎u͎r͎s͎ when it’s obvious (except to him) that you are already h̲i̲s̲?  


  
  
⌜ ∂υ∂є, ¢αη ωє ∂σ ℓιкє α мσνιє ηιgнт αη∂ ωαт¢н α נυ∂у gαяℓαη∂ ƒιℓм? ⌟  


Yet another bold invitation. And much to your gleeful relief, he replies:  


  * ⌜нєℓℓ уєαн⌟
  * ⌜gινє мє α тιмє αη∂ ∂αу⌟
  * ⌜ι мαу вє αвℓє тσ ¢ℓєαя ѕσмєтнιηg υρ ση α ωєєкєη∂ ηєχт мσηтн⌟
  * ⌜ιѕη’т уσυя вιятн∂αу αℓѕσ ¢σмιηg υρ? ⌟
  * ⌜¢αη вє му ρяєѕєηт тσ уσυ⌟
  * ⌜ιη α∂∂ιтιση тσ тнє gσσ∂ιєѕ ι αℓяєα∂у ρι¢кє∂⌟
  * ⌜ωєℓℓ 80 нєℓρє∂ ρєя υѕυαℓ⌟



ᴏᴠᴇʀᴡʜᴇʟᴍᴇᴅ, you laid against the cushion inside your trailer, trying your darndest not to kick your legs in the air or toss and spin around like an idiot. But there’s just so much going on inside your chest, like there’s a marching band and a parade trapped within your lungs, forcing the breaths out of you.  
  
He wanted to meet again. He has gifts already picked out for your birthday on December. He l̲i̲k̲e̲s̲ you. C̲a̲r̲e̲s̲ for you. Wants to m̲a̲k̲e̲ ̲t̲i̲m̲e̲ for you.

And it didn’t matter it wasn’t going to be the way you hoped—all that mattered is that you two ａｒｅ ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ, and you really should start seeing that as the victory as it is and ｎｏｔ a consolation prize.

⌜ι’ℓℓ ¢αℓℓ уσυ ѕσмє тιмє тσηιgнт вυт α ωєєкєη∂ ωσυℓ∂ вє ηι¢є⌟

  * ⌜¢σσℓηєѕѕ! ⌟



  
⌜gσ∂, ∂ση’т ѕαу тнαт⌟

  * ⌜:) :) :)⌟



✪➺➺➺

Armstrong looked at ease while he half-jogged across the huge driveway as soon as Finneas dropped you off.  
  
It wasn’t at all a difficult arrangement to make; your parents liked the Armstrongs and thought that you could use a little weekend getaway from home among trustworthy people. There’s also some ᴇxᴄɪᴛɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴡꜱ you wanted the man to hear from you personally. Just the thought of seeing how he would react is already causing more butterflies to flutter in your stomach.  
  
That’s why a smile was already plastered wide on your face as you watched him move towards you. He wore dark-framed glasses, plain gray shirt and jeans, with his fluffy hair most likely uncombed, as well as ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴀᴅᴏʀᴀʙʟᴇ ɢʀɪɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀ. You also met him halfway the well-trimmed grass, though your steps were more guarded as a way to contain the bubbling excitement.  
  
But Armstrong didn’t seem to be as uninhibited. He wound his arms down your back and lifted you an inch off the ground. It made you ｓｑｕｅａｌ in spite of your best efforts and once you tightened your embrace around his frame (buried your nose on the crook of his shoulder so you can inhale his scent), it took all reserves of will t̲o̲ ̲l̲e̲t̲ ̲h̲i̲m̲ ̲g̲o̲ ̲a̲g̲a̲i̲n̲.̲  
  
“Good to see you!” he squinted due to the sun at its peak, signifying nothing but clear skies ahead. “You got everything you need? Oh! And Adie prepared some vegan-based snacks for you, by the way. I tasted some, and they’re delicious so…I hope you like them.”  
  
“I’m sure I will! It’s so sweet for her to even bother…” your smile was becoming painful, made worse by the slight flush on your cheeks. He seemed to notice because he glanced at you once, then twice, as if he’s trying to discern what to say next that won’t make it awkward going forward.  
  
“Come on then, junior, I want you to meet the dogs and Jacob!” he decided on saying that instead as he patted you once on your arm then led you further inside the spacious mansion.  
  
“I already met Jacob that first time you came over backstage,” you hurriedly climbed the steps just to keep up, all while the strap of your duffle bag was slung over one shoulder. The fact that your parents were fine that you could spend the night here (provided Finneas can come over much later for a quick check-up) still felt surreal.

Also amazing. 

The Armstrong household was well-maintained with muted colors and understated décor. Hallways are wide with plenty of open space that are furnished with a bookcase or two plus some plants. It has a touch of awkward elegance too, mostly because the expensive upholstery seems to clash with the kitschy trinkets scattered in mantelpieces or smaller tables, as if they’ve either been hastily put there to add levity or simply forgotten.  
  
But it definitely has the atmosphere of a home in which the people who cohabit together are comfortable with each other. There’s no pretension here. The Armstrongs never struck you as the type who would flaunt their wealth anyway (just like your parents). They both came from modest backgrounds after all, and it showed in how they organized their things around the mansion—if there was any organization at all.  
  
As you looked through the living room that’s cluttered with Catholic-inspired statues of saints, rosary beads, scented candles, and picture frames with the Virgin Mary, you get the sense that this home was always in a constant state of flux where one tries to keep a semblance of harmony (possibly Adrienne) while the other would every now and then sprinkle chaos and mischief (definitely the old man) so the overall aesthetic doesn’t become drab.  
  
You stood there at the center of the room, at awe because so much of this could easily reflect what their marriage must have been like in the last two decades. Or maybe you’re just trying to assign meaning in something random and you could barely understand.  
  
The only other person you shared a home with aside from the two awesome folks who raised you was Finneas, and you know you can be impossible to deal with as a little sister. When it comes to housekeeping and room maintenance, you hoard, you experiment with patterns and designs, but then on a few occasions you can get into a tizzy if even the smallest change inside your room occurred without your knowledge.  
  
Shaking yourself off from the momentary stupor, you turned around just in time as Armstrong pushed a dog almost right on your face. You let out a gasp of surprise which easily became that of sheer glee.

”Oh my god!” You took the Chihuahua into your arms as the dog instantly laid its snout on your left shoulder, smelling and licking your cheek next in greeting. “She’s so cute! It is a she, right?”  
  
“Yep!” the man was all smiles as the palm of his hand grazed the fur of his pet lovingly, “She’s a new rescue. We named her Lenny.”

The pair of you spent almost a minute just cooing at and pampering Lenny, all while Armstrong talked about how they got her, what she’s into, and all the other fond new memories he has of said dog so far. You held Lenny the entire time, which made him leaned closer so he could kiss his pet’s back every now and then as you two talked.  
  
Each time you felt his hand brush over yours because of it, you can’t help the sheepish smile it invoked and the accompanying stolen looks. At some point he noticed (you’re sure of it) but he gave no indication he cared. He was far too smitten over Lenny. It’s very enviable; and oh god, that’s where you’re at now—you’re getting a little jealous of a dog and fantasizing that you were an animal too, just so Armstrong can pick you up in his arms and rock you to sleep. ᴾᵃᵗʰᵉᵗⁱᶜ.  
  
“So what movie are we watching today?” he peered at you after he took Lenny so he can continue lavishing her with kisses and caress.  
  
“Just two for now,” you started playing with your hair, almost as if to console yourself with touch ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ you know ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ. “I have so many favorites already, but I picked two of her very romantic and light-hearted ones.”

”Which are?”  
  
“ _Meet Me in St. Louis_ and _Easter Parade_.”  
  
“Oh, I think I’ve seen those before during replays on TV,” Armstrong remarked as he moved away from the living room so you followed. “And the second one has Fred Astaire, if I’m recalling correctly, right?”  
  
“He was so _fetch_ and dreamy…” you shook your head from side to side.  
  
“ _Fetch_ , huh?” he smirked, understanding the reference. Good for him. This was the same man who didn’t know how to use ‘on fleek’ from before.

“This coming from a guy who said ‘ _coolness_ ’ in text.”  
  
“I love _Mean Girls_. And _Bridesmaids._ They’re my two of comfort chick-flicks. The third one would be _Sixteen Candles._ ” The two of you reached the kitchen area by now as he added, “Every dude should have a chick-flick favorite, and if they say they don’t, they’re lying pieces of shit. Never date a guy who is so concerned about his masculinity that he doesn’t want to admit movies like that are food for the soul.”  
  
And then Armstrong stopped as he placed Lenny on the counter near fridge where he pulled a couple bottles of Snapple, asking you which one from the peach and lemon you wanted and you picked the former. He then interjected, “Shit, I forgot _Josie and the Pussycats_! Before there was _Pitch Perfect_ , there was that, but the world wasn’t ready for it back then.”  
  
In those brisk few minutes as you chatted about films, you get this feeling that he truly was e̲n̲j̲o̲y̲i̲n̲g̲ ̲y̲o̲u̲r̲ ̲c̲o̲m̲p̲a̲n̲y̲ way more than either of you probably expected. There’s a big difference in tone and energy between the Rolling Stone interview and the present. His attitude certainly was more r̳e̳l̳a̳x̳e̳d̳, and he looked you straight in the eye ʟɪᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ʟᴏɴɢ-ᴛɪᴍᴇ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ. Gone was the subtle formality in how he spoke to you back then even when he was making jokes.  
  
You supposed it wasn’t formality—maybe what you sensed here is the fact that he’s ｏｐｅｎｉｎｇ ｕｐ, bridging the gap of communication you thought at first was insurmountable because of his seniority. Now it’s up to you **not** to fuck this up and keep it **platonic**. But as seconds ticked by as you listened and watched him savor gulps of fruit juice in between pauses, you know it’s going to be harder than anything you’ll ever do. At one point you kept staring at the curve of his throat as he swallowed the drink. His skin was tanned on that area and you can’t help but imagine ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛꜱ ᴛᴇxᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪᴘꜱ.  
  
Your gaze probably lingered too uncomfortably long twice, so on that second time, Armstrong ended up reaching out to b͓̽o͓̽o͓̽p͓̽ your nose, laughing as he said, “I’ve lost you again. Come back to this side of the universe, kid.”

Surely (ＳＵＲＥＬＹ!!) he realized what just happened, right? Your cheeks were burning again under the light of scrutiny—only that he didn’t point it out. Instead he looked straight ahead and finished the rest of the bottle.

A tiny smirk played at his lips next when he met your eyes. (Was he amused? Did he still think the idea of you playing with fire was child’s play?)  
  
For a breathless moment or two you just stared at each other, and the memory of that small mishap that occurred inside your dressing room for the AMAs flickered.  
  
(His ｓｃｅｎｔ. The exposed tattoo under his clavicle that’s within your light of your vision blurred by unshed tears. His ｌｉｐｓ. The way his breath ʜɪᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ when he probably realized too late the can of worms he opened by being that ⓒⓛⓞⓢⓔ.)  
  
You assumed he thought about it too because he g̲r̲i̲m̲a̲c̲e̲d̲ and saved face by laughing it off. That was a heartburn, another ɴᴇᴇᴅʟᴇ ᴘʀɪᴄᴋʟᴇ ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅᴇʀ that he would never go there with you and may withdraw once he finds out ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜɪᴍ.

That momentary stall was broken (m͎e͎r͎c͎i͎f͎u͎l͎l͎y͎) when you heard a shuffle of feet from a distance, and Adrienne soon walked in with a box of what you assumed must be pastry, based on the design on the box alone.  
  
“Adie!” you exclaimed with a happy noise that you couldn’t believe sounded genuine enough that it fooled even you. But you are happy to see her again, of course...you only hoped it wasn’t under the most mind-fuck of circumstances. But you hugged her anyway as soon as she put the box aside and also readily held onto you.

Meanwhile, Lenny trailed towards the box, inspecting it with her snout and tongue. Armstrong took her away and rocked her in his arms for a while as he left you to get acquainted with his lovely wife. You recovered quickly enough and thanked Adie, saying, “I’m so glad you decided to have me today! It’s really…like, I don’t know what else to say to really convey—”  
  
The older woman cut you off, but not unkindly, by rubbing your arms in the same gesture as before, like she’s doing it to keep you warm. “I’m just as thrilled. When Billie told me you want to swing by and watch Judy Garland movies here, I thought it was the sweetest thing.”  
  
You’ve always thought Adrienne looked spectacular for a woman who just turned fifty. Her strong cheekbones should make her overall facial features harsh, but there is intelligence in her dark brown eyes and an ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀᴛᴇᴅ ꜱᴜʟᴛʀɪɴᴇꜱꜱ in how she smiled and talked that could reel in any unsuspecting person into a potential s̲u̲i̲t̲o̲r̲. At the moment she wore a white sleeveless blouse with lace on the cleavage and dark shorts which covered half her knees. She had the same curvy figure as you, with arms that bore tattoos like her husband’s, though not nearly as plenty.  
  
Adrienne had done away with her signature raven dreadlocks in favor of tying her thick mane in a messy bun on purpose, with a few strands framing down her cheekbones. When she smiled, those same cheeks became more pronounced yet somehow also ꜱᴏꜰᴛᴇɴᴇᴅ the rest of her features. You wouldn’t notice her immediately in a room full of prettier girls, but ๏ภє ɭ๏๏к was enough to etch the m͎e͎m͎o͎r͎y͎ ͎o͎f͎ ͎h͎e͎r͎ ͎f͎a͎c͎e͎ in your mind’s eye until the rest of the other girls would fade in the background, and you only want to glimpse Adrienne again to make sure you didn’t just imagine her.

It made sense that she would capture Armstrong’s attention back in the day in first sight alone. She looked just as ethereal and modest as the images of the Virgin Mary in the Armstrong living room. And didn’t he have a love song called ‘๓໐thēr ๓คrฯ’ from one of his side-band projects? It’s probably another ditty about his wife.  
  
“I hope you’re fine with me tagging along,” Adrienne added as she kept her hands on your forearms while smiling so openly at you like she’s never had any secrets in her life, “I love Judy too. She’s from Minnesota like me.”  
  
“Yes! I recall!” You beamed at her as your own hands found purchase on her elbows, giving them a squeeze. “And I mean, this is your home, and I’m just a guest so of course I’d like for you to join! Billie Joe told me that you made veggie snacks?” you then cupped your cheeks, “You didn’t have to but thanks!”  
  
“Not a problem, sweetie,” and Adrienne placed her own hands over yours still cupping your cheeks. She then looked towards her husband while she stepped aside to pick up the box and sort through the yummy pastries she bought, “Jacob actually has something else planned for tonight with some friends, so he’s taking a rain check.  
  
“Aww,” Armstrong replied as he let Lenny go so the dog can run around for a bit on the floor, “That’s a shame. I mean, Joey’s already unavailable for the next few months so I thought this would be the one night us three at least can do something together as a family, you know.”  
  
You listened as you sipped your Snapple and sat on one of the stools. That’s when your eyes landed on the small bar they had next to the kitchen. Since you live a clean lifestyle, you will never touch a liquor for as long as you live, but a bar set-up with booze bottles on the shelves, as well as an array of different sized glasses, is quite pretty look at from where you’re sitting. Feels very adult and classy. 

“Would you like to start now or later once it gets dark, sweetie?” Adrienne pulled you from your thoughts with her very melodious voice. She’s just finished placing the pastries inside the fridge so now she observed you expectantly, still all smiles.  
  
Warmly, you responded, “Hmm, it’s still pretty early. Maybe a tour around the house then? If that’s okay.”  
  
It didn’t matter which one of them would like to walk you around the huge mansion, honestly, because spending time with either was going to be a blast. But since you have caught feelings for Armstrong, your demeanor was a little questionable now, especially after that tense, awkward moment earlier. Maybe it’s best not to be alone with him with his wife around. That’s why you now stared back at said older woman with a hopeful look.

(You also felt Armstrong staring, but you don’t want to catch his eye, not right now, not when the feelings are still ꜱᴏʀᴇ like bruises)  
  
Perspective as she was (but hopefully not too much), Adrienne understood what you were trying to convey, so she merely wiped her hands on the sides of her pants and gestured, “Right this way then. We can start outside, if you don’t mind. We had a greenhouse installed about five years ago, and it’s my favorite spot. And Billie has to feed the dogs anyway. Isn’t that right, hun?”  
  
The man in question saluted and left the pair of you without another word.

✪➺➺➺

The short tour took only less than fifteen minutes, but it’d been pleasantly interactive as well. It was so sweet to witness Adrienne take so much pride in the garden she’s been growing inside the greenhouse. Truth be told, you get this distinct impression that this was ᴍᴏʀᴇ ʜᴇʀ ꜱᴀɴᴄᴛᴜᴀʀʏ than her spouse’s. From the way she carried herself across the breathable halls and rooms, Adrienne suddenly reminded you of a well-bred lady from a previous century, showcasing her estate in a straightforward yet charming delivery.  
  
She’s so intimately acquainted with everything that you just know that her husband perhaps didn’t preoccupy himself as much with the matters of their home unless maybe where finances are concerned.  
  
This was confirmed when Adrienne gestured to one side of a short hallway, saying, “Down another set of stairs there is Billie’s studio. We have another where our boys can make music, equipped with the instruments. But babe’s studio has the mixers and consoles, even a recording booth. When he’s not in the mood to leave the house, he still likes to have access in producing some new music. ᴀɴʏᴛɪᴍᴇ, ᴀɴʏᴡʜᴇʀᴇ, he would always say.”  
  
Affection touched her tone as she added, “Music’s his first love.”  
  
“I’m sure you’re in equal footing now,” you remarked, albeit shyly.  
  
But she laughed, earth-toned eyes sparkling, “No, that would be Mike. He loves the man and the music they create together equally. It’s all about Billie’s lyrics and Mike’s bassline. Like red wine and a good steak.”  
  
Carnivore metaphors aside, you completely related. It was hard to imagine your music ｗｉｔｈｏｕｔ Ｆｉｎｎｅａｓ.  
  
As you walked together, Adrienne also made things very interesting as you went from one section of the mansion to the next, because she told rather cute anecdotes concerning Joey and Jacob in their childhood, until her nostalgic sentiment rubbed off on you in no time.  
  
You felt lucky to receive this valuable insight into the Armstrongs’ home life, that it’s easy enough to draw similar comparisons from your own. This is a m̳u̳s̳i̳c̳a̳l̳ ̳h̳o̳u̳s̳e̳h̳o̳l̳d̳, where two kids have been encouraged to discover their v̲o̲i̲c̲e̲ and collaborate creatively together with their parents. At the end of the tour, your hand unconsciously slipped through Adrienne’s fingers and she, in return, squeezed yours, while you descended the steep staircase.  
  
“When he’s home, does it even feel like he’s really ɦɛʀɛ աɨȶɦ ʏօʊ?”  
  
Fuck, that was quite the bold inquiry to make and too personal of an observation too. You tensed up around the shoulders and dreaded that Adrienne would pull her hand away in an instant. But she was so gracious that even if she was taken aback by your sweeping statement, she barely showed it.

But instead of an actual answer, the older woman simply looked at you over her shoulder once and said, “It’s okay to be curious, you know. I can see that you like and admire him very much, B. And between you and me, I know for a fact that he strongly f̳e̳e̳l̳s̳ ̳t̳h̳e̳ ̳s̳a̳m̳e̳.”  
  
There goes your fucking cheeks again, probably looking like sun-dried tomatoes at this point. “Really? ‘Cos maybe he’s just humoring me.”  
  
“Oh, darling,” she laughed just as you both reached the last flight. Still clasping your hand, Adrienne retorted, “You caught his eye from the very moment he learned you have the same name, and he heard you sing.”  
  
You can’t even look at the older woman in the eye. Somehow the carpet underneath your feet looked so fascinating.  
  
To your mild shock, Adrienne tucked her hand under your chin which forced you to bravely bear the weight of her own stare. She was truly breathtaking like this; her expression so open, so light, with ɴᴏ ᴛʀᴀᴄᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴜꜱᴘɪᴄɪᴏɴ ᴏʀ ʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ even when you knew her woman’s intuition already told her that your feelings for her husband are n͎o͎t͎-͎s͎o͎ ͎i͎n͎n͎o͎c͎e͎n͎t͎ this entire time.

“It’s okay,” she reassured you once more by rubbing on your forearms. “You r͎e͎m͎i͎n͎d͎ ͎m͎e͎ so much of Billie Joe himself, when you’re quiet like that and can’t decide what to say back. Maybe that’s why ʜᴇ ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ when most of the time we avoid the people who give us a rare glimpse of our own reflection.”

Yeah, you don’t even know what Adrienne meant by that, but she sounded convinced about her own rhetoric so you offered no comment. Soon enough she withdrew and watched you with such a patient smile that induced both guilt and relief all at once. You really like and respect her; she was every bit as formidable as her husband but in a different way—while Billie Joe has you melting (ᵢₙ yₒᵤᵣ ₚₐₙₜᵢₑₛ) and gnashing your teeth due to school-girl crush, with Adrienne somehow you wanted to make up for the things you lack and hope to God you weren’t disappointing her.  
  
(Did he feel this way all the time for 80, whether at home or on the road? You knew for fact it might be. He said once in an interview that he penned so many songs for her, and the world has heard only a quarter of them.)  
  
Adrienne helped you diffuse the tension next by offering, “Want to taste the snacks I made for you? I’ve done some vegan dishes here and there, but I want to make sure you’re fine with the flavors.”  
  
“Um, sure, yeah!” you shook yourself from your sheepish response just now and firmly restated, “I would love some, thanks!”

✪➺➺➺

It came as no surprise to learn that the Armstrongs have their own home theater. It’s nothing incredibly upscale, but the reclining ten leather seats are a winner. You made a dash for the one at the very center in front and immediately crossed your legs as you pushed down a lever. As soon as you realized that you were such a little kid for doing that, you stood back up again to assist Adrienne with the food she brought with her whilst her husband carried more bottles of Snapple.  
  
Together, the three of you settled down with you in the middle and either adult on your side. Armstrong had _Meet Me At St. Louis_ cued minutes ago.  
  
It’s close to six by the time you started on the first Judy movie, which was just two hours after you arrived. Earlier once the tour with Adie wrapped up, Armstrong had to do a radio interview via video conference, and that took half an hour. You were left to idle with the grand piano on the adjacent room during that time. Now, this was always an instrument of your choice; there’s just something peaceful whenever your fingers would slide and dance over the ivory keys. Melodies sounded fuller and ʜᴀᴜɴᴛɪɴɢ even, filling the gaps of silence each time you’re lonesome and feeling contemplative.  
  
You played a song you and Finneas haven’t finished composing, humming the lyrics under your breath as opposed to singing coherently so that you don’t disturb the ongoing interview. The faint music must have caught Armstrong’s ear the entire time while he’s in the other room, because as soon as he’s done, he came right over and stood there by the doorway for what seemed like a minute.  
  
Of course, you knew he was there. That hyper-sense you’ve developed as a superpower m̳o̳s̳t̳l̳y̳ ̳h̳o̳n̳e̳d̳ ̳i̳n̳ ̳o̳n̳ ̳h̳i̳m̳ ̳r̳e̳a̳d̳i̳l̳y̳. When will you ever _not_ sense him, especially when he’s this close in the same room? In reality, however, Billie Joe Armstrong might as well be a hundred miles away. You’d still like to pretend he isn’t, even if it’s become clearer that there is just so much about him you admire and would never want to be rid of just for the fantasy of ʙᴇɪɴɢ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ʙʏ ʜɪᴍ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ—such as the curious glint in his eye whenever you caught his interest about something, and the fact that he has a beautiful wife who looks at you the same way in fondness.

The sin of youth is the awful desire for people and things ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇɴ’ᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ꜰᴏʀ in the long run, and nothing was as cruel of an example as ｕｎｒｅｑｕｉｔｅｄ ｌｏｖｅ.  
  
As you neared a crescendo on the piano, you turned your head to acknowledge him then, and you could only hope your eyes, and the damning quirk of your lips at the sight of him, didn’t give away the secret of how much you wish he’s beside you, with his breath ghosting on your cheek. You craved his fingers next to you on the keys, ʀᴏᴜɢʜᴇɴᴇᴅ ʙʏ ɢᴜɪᴛᴀʀ ᴄᴀʟʟᴜꜱᴇꜱ.  
  
Oh, fuck, you craved it ａｌｌ.  
  
His scent. His lips. His everything _not-married_ , not- _forty-seven_ , not- _wrong_. Except he’s still all of these things, and none of them will be yours.

All that either of you can offer one another was the gift of song—a journey leading to an inevitable m͎u͎s͎i͎c͎ ͎o͎f͎ ͎g͎o͎o͎d͎b͎y͎e͎.

Jesus, silly dramatics aside, you two could at least sit together at present and watch Judy Garland sing about her own budding romance with a guy she can’t wait to get to know. Adrienne was humming along once the first verse started, and soon enough you harmonized with her in tandem.

  
‘ι ℓσѕт му нєαят ιηѕтєα∂’ Judy cheerily admits as she sits on the trolley with the rest of the colorfully dressed ladies. It was such an upbeat track, and Judy sings it without the awareness of a possible heartbreak, because how sure can she be that the guy would feel the same way about her anyway? So for her during this scene, the seed which bloomed in her heart was still worth nurturing. You u͎n͎d͎e͎r͎s͎t͎a͎n͎d͎ that doe-eyed intoxication more than anything.  
  
At some point, Adrienne and you were holding hands, still singing along. You quickly glanced at Armstrong and saw him just staring at the big screen, smiling. Your shoulders had only bumped twice, but soon enough you felt bolder, so you slipped your other hand to ᴇɴᴛᴀɴɢʟᴇ with his. You did this without looking at his reaction, and pretended that your attention was more focused between the screen and Adie beside you as you looked at one another, reciting the lyrics.  
  
But once he gripped your hand and tried to join in, you had to turn your head again just in time as he leaned ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ—but only so he can sing to his wife on the other end of the seat. Totally understandable. It was still a pretty cozy moment, snuggled between the Armstrongs as they held your hands. Adrienne’s skin was warm and smooth yet her grip was much firmer than her spouse’s.  
  
His was loose, the skin just slightly colder than what you would have expected. You wished to keep holding it, but Armstrong pulled away so he can grab a snack from the platter. The sandwiches Adrienne made were all vegan, which was rather sweet. They could have as easily made something meat-based too, but instead they opted to adapt tonight for your sake. You really ought to trade recipes with Adie some time because the one you’ve just finished munching on was divine!

There was a scene in the movie later on in which Judy’s character and the guy she fancies are flirting, and before he bids her goodbye they decide to close the lights together one by one in every section of her big house where she lived with her family. This particular scene always read to you as rather ｓｔｅａｍｙ as you watched it, even if there were no kisses involved. They didn’t even take off their clothes or looked into each other’s eyes with the intent to ravish.  
  
Instead they went around the house with childlike delight as they turned off these chandelier-styled lights. The reason you thought it was still quite an erotic moment was how Judy’s character seems to hold her breath as each light was turned off. Her cheeks were flushed, and the guy beside her smiled like he was trying so bad not to spill a guarded secret in her presence.  
  
You realized at last—while you’re sitting between the man and his wife—that it was probably the a̾n̾t̾i̾c̾i̾p̾a̾t̾i̾o̾n̾ that something could easily happen in the dark between Judy and her love interest which infused their awed silence with tension. And so the lights were turned low in the house, until one last ember remains glowing in the middle of the room, and the pair of not-yet-lovers share a glance, before giggling at the breathless silliness they committed. It was such a wholesome thing to experience with someone you want to be with very much, which Judy’s character embodied.  
  
It was right there that the temptation of a romance has slowly crystalized between herself and the guy even if ɴᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ ᴋɴᴏᴡꜱ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴀᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀɴᴄᴇ.

Sighing, you snuggled closer to Adrienne with your head on her shoulder and your hands still entwined on the armrest. The older woman welcomed you into her home without question or remorse that the least you could do is n͎o͎t͎ ͎t͎o͎ ͎d͎w͎e͎l͎l͎ ͎o͎n͎ ͎t͎h͎e͎ ͎f͎e͎e͎l͎i͎n͎g͎s͎ you still harbor for her husband.  
  
But with only the light from the big screen, everything else was dark that your imagination can’t help but wander into dangerous terrain. It didn’t help that Armstrong was now slouched against his own seat with his calves raised, cradled by the cushion elevated from the reclining position of the chair. His left leg brushed against yours a few times, and you blamed being a hormonal teenage girl for the ʀᴜᴄᴋᴜꜱ it invoked for each careless and accidental stroke.  
  
Two hours gone by in a flash just like that. _Easter Parade_ clearly interested Armstrong more since he became livelier and more engaged with the production and songs. Maybe the glass of whiskey his wife brought in earlier also helped. (She replenished the platter too, and you could have easily finished everything for yourself, honestly, because they were that good!)  
  
In any case, the man was sitting upright again as he nudged you every now and then to make comical observations that almost distracted you from enjoying the rest of the film. But you watched this particular one twice already, so it’s not a big deal. Besides, you love the fact that he’s being so interactive and playful—that means he’s further becoming relaxed in your presence, which was all you could ask for from a man who c̳a̳n̳’̳t̳ ̳g̳i̳v̳e̳ ̳y̳o̳u̳ anything else, especially what you want the most.

It was Adie’s turn to rest her head upon your shoulder as soon as Judy plays the film’s notable ballad, which also caused you to get cozier with the older woman. You were practically cuddling her by the time the song ended.

ɪ'ᴠᴇ ᴅᴀɴᴄᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴅᴏᴢᴇɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ  
ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ,  
ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜʀɪʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱᴘʀɪɴɢ  
ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ,  
ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴏɴʟʏ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ.

“Wow,” Armstrong suddenly spoke up, “You really feel like you’re also going to fall in love whenever you watch it happen for her in the movie.”  
  
To which you easily retorted, “That’s the magic of Judy, man. She’s Շเ๓єɭєรร.”  
  
There’s a pause as you looked right at him while still leaning against his wife and half-buried in the blanket said woman has wrapped around you both at some point during the night. “L͎i͎k͎e͎ ͎y͎o͎u͎,” you whispered almost to yourself.

But he heard it at the last second when your gazes locked. The dim lighting made it hard to tell what his smile meant right before he looked back at the screen. You stared at his face—aglow with the sparse light—just for a few more seconds before you felt your eyes droop and your mind drift away.  
  
That short nap was interrupted at least ten minutes later because Armstrong roused you when he scooted closer to your armrest to reach over to Adrienne, who also met him halfway. Squished between them, you could only blink in silence as they shared a brief but meaningful peck on the lips.  
  
Afterwards they just looked at each other for a few more seconds, smiling in content; their faces are reminiscent of what you’ve seen each time Judy and her love interests would fawn on each other the same way.  
  
It made your heart giddy yet also sick with ｌｏｎｇｉｎｇ.

ᴴᵉ’ˢ ⁿᵒᵗ ᶠᵒʳ ʸᵒᵘ, it whispered, this persistent ache that made every ventricle a watery mess inside you, ᴴᵉ’ˢ ⁿᵒᵗ ᶠᵒʳ ʸᵒᵘ, ᴴᵉ’ˢ ⁿᵒᵗ ᶠᵒʳ ʸᵒᵘ, ᴴᵉ’ˢ ⁿᵒᵗ ᶠᵒʳ ʸᵒᵘ.

✪➺➺➺

Just in time for supper, Finneas stopped by, and he was welcomed into the Armstrong household in the same vein of warm acceptance. It was always good to see your brother, even though you spent most of your waking life with the guy nine-five percent of the time due to the recordings you collaborate on together and the countless interviews for promotion especially with your upcoming tour together.  
  
“Thanks so much for looking after our baby Pirate,” he held you loosely in his arms as he smiled at the couple, adding, “She was all kinds of excited to hang out with Billie Joe, it’s, like, crazy.” This was followed by a shit-eating grin.  
  
“Shut up!” you snapped at your brother playfully and half-shoved him against a wall, which you realized in hindsight was as c͎h͎i͎l͎d͎i͎s͎h͎ as it could get, especially when you’ve been trying to act like ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ-ʟᴇɢᴀʟ ᴀᴅᴜʟᴛ you will become a week from now. But Finneas shouldn’t have called you ‘baby’ in front of the Armstrongs, ᵍᵒᵈᵈᵃᵐⁿ!

Also, it’s not as if your unrequited crush doesn’t already know how much you wanted to see him so… ᵘᵍᵍʰʰʰʰʰʰ!!!!

“It’s no trouble at all,” Adrienne came to your rescue, “We had a great time with her. Didn’t we enjoy ourselves, 𝕭𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖎𝖊𝖘?” and she looked across you and then her hubby.  
  
Armstrong in question just nodded a few times. His smile was a little awkward from where you’re standing, just before he met your eyes. But that same smile ꜱᴏꜰᴛᴇɴᴇᴅ impossibly while directed at you, and it was the h̳a̳r̳d̳e̳s̳t̳ thing to do not to squirm and melt, but you managed, goddammit.  
  
His wife caught sight of this and laughed though not unkindly. She just kissed Armstrong on the cheek and then gestured for you and your brother to follow them towards the dining room area where the older woman has already set up the plates of food. The spread was nothing too extravagant, of course, but everything has been served with that enviable feminine, sensual touch you often felt you lack at your age.  
  
You could only hope that one day you can exude such grace, especially for someone you love and whom you want to feel most at home with.  
  
As you sat among the best company in the world, you happily dug into the small feast of flavors that appealed to your conscious eating, which only deepened your desire to work this kind of magic once you become a hostess in your own house. Maybe for your birthday next week? But knowing your sociable ass, it certainly ain’t going to be a private affair with close friends only. You want a ｓｐｅｃｔａｃｌｅ! You’re only turning eighteen once after all. ᴵᵗ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ᵇᵉ ⁿⁱᶜᵉ ᵗᵒ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ᴬʳᵐˢᵗʳᵒⁿᵍˢ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ ᵗᵒᵒ…

Finneas didn’t leave immediately after supper since he wanted to see you get settled inside the guest room first. And since he knew you so well, he brought in five extra pillows—your fluffy favorites—and helped build a pillow fort. That took another ten minutes of just you and him reciting corny ass lines from a childhood roleplay you used to do together. With a brother so attentive like him and also one who always gets your sense of humor, who really needs a boyfriend right now, huh?  
  
Once you’ve exhausted yourself, you laid there on the sheets in utter content, all while surrounded by your pillow fortress. It was the best kind you’ve made so far, and it delights you so much that it was made within the Armstrong home. ᴳᵃᵃᵃʰʰʰ!!

“Get a hold of yourself,” Finneas just sat nearby with a passing look of concern mingling with his overall fondness for you, “Because you’re more transparent than you think. This isn’t some backstage party anymore, Billie. You’re at his place. With his wife. And they _know_. Like I know.”  
  
Just to be argumentative, you shot back, “ _Please,_ I’m not being _that_ obvious! It’s normal to fangirl about an idol, dude. I wasn’t even doing it excessively. And I’m pretty sure Billie Joe has been on the receiving end of that a million times already! Why should mine be any special?”  
  
“I mean…” your brother countered, “You’re not just some fan who only gets to meet him once or twice in a public event. You’re _here_ in his house until tomorrow, Billie. He wants you to be here, and I bet he loves spending time with you as much as you have. Well, okay, not in the same degree as you do at least, because the minute that happens, I’m pulling you out of here.”  
  
Finneas was the friendliest, sweetest guy in the world, but he would go the extra mile to make sure you’re safe, even if it means kicking someone’s ass too—and he won’t care if it’s the ass of someone ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴀᴅᴍɪʀᴇᴅ ɢʀᴏᴡɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ. But of course, it won’t come to that! Billie Joe Armstrong **isn’t like that**.  
  
Your brother knows it too, but you can understand his wariness, especially after a few guys in the social circles you’re both a part of were already starting to show interest on you that was no longer a mild type of innocent appreciation. 

A lot of them had been u̳n̳w̳a̳n̳t̳e̳d̳ too. It’s a little annoying.  
  
There’s also this suspicion you’ve had earlier this year after Coachella and the remix track you collaborated with Bieber that the guy kept trying to get touch in you through Finneas, but your brother brushed him off on your behalf. It didn’t bother you that he stepped in to do that, because in all honesty, as much as you admire Justin as an artist, you don’t think you would ever want to go there with him at all, no matter how strong your previous infatuation for the dude was.

“Listen, okay?” And you took your brother’s hands inside yours and said, “He’s just a really nice guy, and a͎ ͎g͎o͎o͎d͎ ͎m͎a͎n͎, most importantly…”  
  
_That’s why I fell for him from the very beginning_ , _not that I’ll tell you._  
  
“…who is also happily married to this amazing woman. Behind the music he makes with Green Day is a really compassionate person who helped me put a few things in perspective lately when it came to my career in music. That’s all. We are just friends, and I know it’s suspect since he’s three decades older, but he’d ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʙᴇᴇɴ ɪɴᴀᴘᴘʀᴏᴘʀɪᴀᴛᴇ with me and never will. We both know that. Our folks do too, which is why they allowed me stay over, right? They know the Armstrongs are good people."

You released his hands so you can instead wrap your arms around him in a reassuring embrace. “But thanks for looking out after me again.”

Finneas was quiet for a moment or two as his hands migrated on your back to keep you close. But when he pulled away, the look of concern touched his features once more while he inquired, “He gave you advice on something? Is it something I should know too? Oh, Billie, is everything okay or…?”  
  
Your brother almost sounded hurt that you didn’t come to him first about it.  
  
“No, it’s not a big deal!” You chuckled nervously. “It’s just about Judy Garland and all the other talented people whom we lost too soon because this industry…kinda **_kills_** something in you if you’re not careful. I was afraid of—but that was _clearly_ an unfounded fear, I know that already, because…”  
  
Sheepishly, you squeezed his hands again. “Ｉ ｇｏｔ ｙｏｕ, bro. And Mom and Dad. But you most of all, ‘cos ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴍʏ ａｎｃｈｏｒ.”  
  
His blue eyes moistened before he broke into a grin and gathered you in his arms again. You squeezed back as your chin settled on his shoulder just as it did many times before. You and your brother remained like that for a while before he eventually has to go. But it’s fine, because by tomorrow, you’ll come home, and Finneas will be right there all over again. Consistent. Reliably.  
  
Really, though, Billie Joe Armstrong may ⁿᵒᵗ ᵇᵉ ᶠᵒʳ ʸᵒᵘ, but who needs that love to be returned when y͎o͎u͎ ͎a͎l͎r͎e͎a͎d͎y͎ ͎g͎o͎t͎ ͎o͎n͎e͎ ͎t͎h͎a͎t͎’͎s͎ ͎u͎n͎t͎a͎r͎n͎i͎s͎h͎e͎d͎, and it’s everything in the world right now you can and will always count on?

* * *


End file.
